


The Other Side of the Mirror

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths
Genre: Alternate Reality, As in mirror!Robin, Brutal Murder, Conditioning, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Drug Abuse, Earth-3, F/M, M/M, Mental Coercion, Mess of Continuities, Mirror Universe, Not Really Character Death, Physical Abuse, Roy Harper as mirror!Arsenal, This Didn't Start as Slash, mirror!Outlaws Team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 200,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am Talon, I know I will never be anything else, but at least I can choose not to be his Talon. I can choose to be more than the living weapon that Owlman made me. — Earth-3 universe, eventual unintended Dick Grayson/Jason Todd with background Roy/Cheshire. Total mess of different continuities, I regret nothing!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Talon of an Owl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kieron_ODuibhir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kieron_ODuibhir/gifts), [TrisakAminawn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=TrisakAminawn).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! Not what you were expecting from me, I know, but the Earth-3 universe kind of... ate my muses. Accept my not-really-sorry apologies, this universe is way too much fun.
> 
> Notes about that all-important word, **continuity:** This story is equal parts taken from the Crisis on Two Earths movie, what little canon there is about Earth-3 in the new 52 (mostly the Forever Evil storyline), my own head-canons, and the head-canons of TrisakAminawn's (FF) Earth-3 world! Here are the important things:
> 
> 1 — Bruce Wayne is Owlman, because Thomas Wayne is a cheap cop-out to not muddy Bruce's name, and that's just bad as far as I'm concerned. Bruce has all kinds of villain potential.
> 
> 2 — Harley is alive and well as 'Harlequin', the hero and partner of the Jokester, as well as having her normal Arkham Asylum psychiatrist background.
> 
> There are a lot of other minor differences, but I'll put them at the bottom.

It's remarkably difficult to look at what will become my own corpse, actually surprisingly so. Outside of the occasional moment brought on by my mentor — though perhaps the better word might be captor, the way I'm beginning to think — this tight feeling in my gut, dangerously close to fear, isn't something I'm used to.

Then again, I _should_ be afraid. Regardless of what my mentor has beaten into me, and out of me, I would still be beyond insane not to fear him at least a little. Which, I guess, means that I crossed the line of sanity a long time ago. Right up there with the likes of the Jokester, or his Harlequin girlfriend, how _perfect_. Or is it wife, now? I'm fairly certain I saw a ring on his finger last time I nearly dislocated his shoulder, though usually 'Jay' doesn't let me close enough to Harlequin for her to try hitting me, or the reverse. Probably a good decision.

With what I'm about to attempt — and it's such an _insane_ idea, I'm almost convinced the Jokester will go along with it just for the sake of madness — it's probably best that neither Owlman nor I have gotten close enough to seriously hurt the woman. Mad as he is, the Jokester might have tried a little harder to truly kill us if that were the case. He'd certainly never dream of doing me the favor I'm about to ask him.

Though how could I ever claim to know what that clown dreams of?

The thing blinks, looking at me with wide blue eyes, and the reminder is uncomfortable. Is this what I would look like if Bruce had never gotten ahold of me? Would my eyes be that innocent?

"Like I originally told you, I couldn't give him the evidence of your past injuries," the man standing against the wall says softly, and both of our pairs of blue eyes turn to him. "Will that still work for you?"

"I planned around it," I answer, equally softly. If anyone hears us — and there are _so_ many people that could — this will go wrong far too quickly for either of us to recover. There's a mixture of disapproval and something tight, something understanding, in Luthor's equally blue eyes — though his are a shade paler than either me or the innocent _thing_ lying before me. He doesn't like what little I've told him of my plan — just enough to get him to create a clone — but he knows why I'm doing it, and I think that, even grudgingly, he agrees there's no other option.

"Do you know what you're doing, kid?" he asks, arms crossed over his chest, and I flash a thin smile. There's no emotion behind it, most of _that_ was destroyed a long time ago, but it's an ingrained reaction as Talon.

"Does Owlman?" I counter. "That's the important question." We're both silent for a few moments, and I see the tightness in his jaw that speaks to his wariness. He might be fighting someone a lot stronger than my own enemy, but Ultraman is not nearly as crafty, or as intelligently vicious. My existence is proof enough of that. "I'll pick it up when the time comes," I promise, turning on my heel.

"He's not a _thing_ , Talon," Luthor says, in the sharpest tone he's used this whole conversation. "Maybe that clone doesn't have a fully working mind, but he's more than just an animal. Can you live with sacrificing a life for your own survival? Never mind, why did I even ask?"

I catch the frustrated edge to Luthor's voice, but I don't bother answering his question, rhetorical or not. Leaving Owlman isn't the same as joining the heroes, and as far as I'm concerned they're fighting a losing battle. I'm planning to get _out_ of my death sentence of a life; why would I join up with them and put myself back in the same situation?

Getting out of LexCorp is easy enough, despite the tight crawl spaces, and soon enough I'm out, no one in the building, but Luthor, ever knowing I was there. Bruce will know, of course, but he's the one who'd sent me down to Metropolis to spy on Luthor, so my foray into the corporation won't raise any alarms for him. Luthor doesn't know — though he'll piece it together pretty quickly when the inevitable attack comes — but I retrieved enough information, before meeting with him, to satisfy Ultraman and, more importantly, Bruce. I can only hope that Luthor is good enough to keep my commissioned clone out of anyone else's hands until I need it. If not, I suppose it can always be explained away as one of his inane plots, though choosing _me_ as a subject might raise some suspicion.

I find a dark alley, easy even in the shining city of Metropolis, to make my call.

The communicator hooks into my ear easily enough, activated with a touch of my finger. "I'm done," I say, without preamble, leaning against the dingy walls of the alley. Rooftops are my normal hideout, but those are significantly less safe in the hometown of Ultraman. Alleys aren't much better, but at least they're a little more shadowed. "Heading back."

" _Understood_ ," is all the answer I get, Bruce's voice as gruff and cold as always. It's hard to tell if he's being short because he's out on a patrol, making sure that none of the heroes get any bright ideas, or the gangs have any intent to step out of line, or just because Bruce is nearly _always_ that way. Probably the former, but Bruce is one of the _very_ few people that I can't read with any real consistency, especially based on just his voice.

I take a moment to consider my different methods of getting back to Gotham. The easiest ones are also the ones that will garner the most attention — that is, traveling back as Richard Grayson — which is _always_ something to be avoided, especially where Bruce is concerned. I didn't come to Metropolis as Richard, so I can't leave as him either.

It's one of the more obvious signs of my mental instability, how I consider my real name to be the false one. Another thing I can attribute to Bruce's training. I _am_ Talon, I know I will never be anything else, but at least I can choose not to be _his_ Talon. I can pretend to be someone else, though considering how deeply I'll have to be in hiding, even _with_ my plan, my options will be pretty limited.

It's a long way to go just under my own power, so I'll have to hitch a ride on something. Bruce will expect me back before the night is over.

* * *

It's twelve more serious fights with various heroes, mainly Jokester and the rest of his group, before I get a chance to speak to the clown. The nearly two month span doesn't bother me; patience has always been easy. One of the first traits Bruce ever instilled in me was the ability to wait, to patiently study a target from every angle before even considering moving. It took a lot of bruises, and more nights spent crouched on a rooftop than I care to remember, but I took that to heart more than any other lesson he ever taught me. I've been thinking this particular plan through for years and years, long before I ever consulted Luthor about the possibility of it.

I watch Owlman chase after Enigma for a moment, knowing that can only end one of two ways — a dead Enigma, or a rescue by another group member — and swap my attention back to the lean form of the Jokester. I know Harlequin and a few of the others are around the back, the direction that Enigma is running, so that should keep Bruce occupied for at least a few minutes. That's enough.

I leap down from the shadows of the roof, getting between Bruce's back and the Jokester's dart gun, knocking it out of his hand with one foot as I come down nearly on top of him. The dart wouldn't have gone through Bruce's armor anyway, but attacking will still give me enough of a reason to stay behind. He reacts quickly, just as used to this particular dance as I am. He ducks out of the way of my first grab at his arm, incessant laughter spilling between his lips, his movements as sharp and jerky as usual.

"Bird-boy!" he says in what sounds like delight, skipping backwards and throwing some kind of capsule that bursts into purple gas on the ground beside me. I dive away from it, holding my breath in my lungs until I'm safely clear of the likely toxic gas. I catch him on the second try, flinging him up against one wall of the building. The laughter cuts off as he hits it, so it's probably harder than I should have thrown him to make a good first impression.

I drive my forearm into his chest — not as hard as I normally would; I don't want to break his ribs to start this conversation — and pin him against the wall by it. I press my weight against him, but stand carefully to the side, outside of the range of the nastier tricks on the front of his costume. He recovers fast enough to make me wonder, not for the first time, if the chemical bath Bruce gave him didn't make him better than a normal human in addition to his disfigurement. I take the surprisingly strong blow to my side with only a clench of my teeth, glaring up at him. I've had Bruce beating on me since he chose me to be his Talon, and the Jokester might be wiry, but he's _definitely_ not as strong as Bruce.

I hold up my other hand in a placating gesture, keeping my mouth shut, and at the brief light of interest, and confusion, reach up to pry the communicator from my ear. I drop it to the ground and, very deliberately, crush it under my heel. Bruce won't be happy, but I _need_ this chance.

"I need your help." My voice is a quiet hiss, hopefully enough so that I'll get a few seconds of warning before Bruce can hear me, if he comes back around the corner.

The Jokester's green eyes narrow, though the grin doesn't leave his face. "Bird-boy wants help from _me?_ " he cackles, and I thank whatever sanity the clown still has that his voice is just as quiet as mine. He might be insane, there's no questioning that, but he's also _smart_. Not the genius that Bruce is, but he's clever enough.

"I want out. Help me, and I'll disappear. You'll never have to deal with me again."

The Jokester looks at me for a long few moments, enough that I have to curb the urge to tell him to hurry up and make some kind of decision. If I do, I know it will only drive him to keep quiet for even longer, just to spite me. " _Tempting!_ What do you want from _me?_ " His voice is the same tone, like he's one step away from bursting into laughter, but the look in his eyes is sharp, focused.

"Talk to Luthor," I state simply. "Be _careful_. If you get intercepted-"

"The little bird is roadkill?" he finishes, grin just a little nastier than usual. I admit, this is the least predictable bit of my plan. It could have been done without Luthor, but the Jokester is integral, and he has no reason I'm aware of to want to help me. Even worse, he's got quite a few reasons to want me dead. Unfortunately, that's part of why I need him.

"Distrusted," I correct. He might not get the full meanings of that word — then again, he's smart enough that he _might_  — but I know what will happen. I'm an investment, and if Bruce thinks he can fix me by putting me back in the brutal early days of training, he will. I'm only dead if he decides I'm too much of a liability to even risk retraining, and that's the more unlikely possibility. Still, it's viable enough that I'd rather not test it. "Will you do it?"

He laughs, the one that's loud and pitched at _just_ the right level to make my mentor's teeth make that very distinctive grinding clench, the clench that _only_ the Jokester can inspire. I'm sure that if Bruce is anywhere close enough, within earshot of the carrying cackle, he's making exactly that expression. At this point, it's enough to make me give a miniature version of the same face. My mouth tightens into a thin line, and my eyes narrow slightly. It's not quite aggravation, but irritation might describe it.

"Awww, bird-boy, that's adorable!" His voice lowers after the initial proclamation, thankfully. "Worth it for the laugh," he says, his words interspersed with a low giggle.

I tense for a moment, loosening my pin a little bit. "Make it look good, Jokester," I demand.

The clown doesn't disappoint. A feint towards my right side, that I release my pin to block, and he hits me with a nerve strike from his opposite hand just as Owlman comes skidding around the corner. I reel, pain spiking down my left side, and a foot to the underside of my jaw completes the take down. Jokester runs, cackling, away from Owlman, who spares me little more than a glance before running after the hero. Granted my nerves are close to dead — being a sociopath's living punching bag will do that to you — and my pain tolerance is miles above most people's, but it still takes me a bit to recover. Long enough for both of them to disappear from view.

Bruce will lay into me later, both for losing my communicator and for allowing the Jokester to escape, but I will handle it as I always do. With patience, with tolerance, and with the knowledge that it won't be long until things end, one way or another.

* * *

"So?" the Jokester asks, legs swinging back and forth as if he's a kid on a swing. He's perched on the closed dumpster as comfortably as he might be in an armchair, and I'm hidden in the shadows beside it. Regardless of appearance, I know that at least three other heroes are scattered within a block's radius, just in case this is a trap. I'm not an idiot, I noticed all of them on my way here, and if I thought it would do any good I might berate the clown. The only thing those heroes will do is make it easier for Bruce to notice our whereabouts.

"Did you talk to Luthor?" I ask, taking another glance at the com system in my hand to make absolutely certain my half of it is disabled. For the sake of paranoia, and because it's a healthy habit to have when it comes to the business of betraying Owlman.

The tracker in my suit is working, as it always is, but I'm on patrol. Standing still, even if I stay here for a while, will be nothing strange. Bruce may monitor my position, but doesn't generally question what I'm doing unless the movements seem abnormal. If he does, I will tell him precisely what happened. That I ran into the Jokester and three of his sidekick heroes, and decided to see if they had any plans before interfering, or calling for assistance. Bruce isn't particularly likely to punish me for self-preservation unless it goes against his orders, and besides, if Bruce isn't out on patrol with me, that means he's busy. He wouldn't appreciate being called out to assist me unless there's actually some plan to stop. You don't interrupt a busy Owlman, without good reason, unless you enjoy having a broken jaw. I've learned.

"Oh yeah! We shared some donuts, coffee — man's addicted, you know — talked about your plans to get yourself killed. Pleasant chats!"

"It seemed the best option," I reply neutrally. He's above me, perched as he is, and the clown is significantly taller than me anyway. Six feet, Bruce's height, though I've got far more muscle on me than he does.

"Well, kid, walk me through what you think my part of this is. You didn't tell Lexy much, but he's a downer so I get that." He's actually behaving fairly seriously, for the clown, and if I wasn't used to the Jokester being all but completely unpredictable, it might unnerve me.

"There are, flaws," I admit, slowly, "and Owlman is thorough. He may not look too closely, but if he does, I need assurance he won't discover the problems with my clone."

"What're those? You give it a beard, or is it missing all the right parts? Oh! I know, I bet-" He continues, theories bouncing left and right, and I let him speak for a time before interrupting.

"I cannot break all the bones necessary to display previous injury," the Jokester goes very quiet, "not unless I wanted to spend another ten or so years under his heel."

"Jeez kid," the clown says after a moment, "that says a lot of things I don't think I wanted to know. How much of that was us?" In a reversal of our roles, he almost sounds flat, and I almost laugh.

"Very little." I see him flinch. "What I'm asking will likely disgust you," I warn, "though you may find some measure of satisfaction in the task."

"Just tell me, kid. You're going to fake your death, so you got Lexy to build you a clone, what's my part?" He lets loose a cackle of laughter into the dark alley, and I glance down either way to make sure no one is nearby. "Want me to throw you a party when you're free? I can do that!"

"Hardly," I say dryly, managing a tiny smirk. "I need you to kill me." His head cocks towards me, green eyes — that nearly glow in the dim light — narrowed in a mixture of confusion and curiosity, the ever present glint of insanity in the background. "You are one of the few heroes who has true reason to hate Owlman, and me, and whom he would deem morally capable of the task I need from you." He waits, and I expand on it after a moment. "If he sees the bones, notices the lack of previous breaks, he will know the corpse isn't me. I've devised a method of death that should adequately hide that imperfection, though naturally I will take on the _burden_ of killing the clone myself."

"Just say it," the Jokester requests, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Very well." I pause for a moment anyway, but at the next sharp glance of his eyes I speak. "The most efficient method to suitably destroy the clone is two-part, though I only require the first from you. To hide the lack of breaks will require that the skeletal structure be shattered near beyond recognition. A violent beating with a crowbar should do the trick rather well. After that, the corpse should be exploded, to minimize the chance of finding a piece large enough to properly examine for more than a DNA sample."

The Jokester shoves himself off the dumpster, landing on the alley floor with a thud of his booted feet, turning on me. His mouth isn't a line, it's not capable of that anymore — not since I helped pin him down while Bruce gave him the grin he's now famous for — but his narrowed eyes broadcast all the anger I need to see. As expected, the suggestion isn't something he wants any part of.

He steps closer, shoving me back against the wall by my shoulders. I could break the hold, or his wrists, in any number of ways, but I choose not to. The Jokester certainly has some form of morals, of honor, and I doubt that he'll do me any real harm in a peaceful meeting like this. I _do_ have a mild desire that he stop pressing quite so hard on my left shoulder, however, as it's only been a little over a week since our first meeting, and I haven't quite healed from Bruce's punishment yet. I wait to see what he'll say instead of using any of my more violent options, ignoring the comparatively minor pain.

"How old are you?" he demands, seemingly out of the blue.

"Fifteen," I answer easily, and it's not even a lie. His laugh comes out broken, humorless, as though wrenched from his throat by the insanity.

"You want me to beat a fifteen year old kid to death with a crowbar, before I blow him to bits, for _your_ sake? So you can pin me with the blame of your death and disappear? Hah! _Hahahahahaha_!" He devolves into giggles, shaking in front of me, and I'm fairly sure that it's not truly out of amusement. Something in the clown's head is broken — I don't blame him for that, knowing what we did to him — and everything comes out a laugh, regardless of emotion. "They call _me_ insane!"

"It's a clone, and I'm sure Luthor told you that it isn't capable of being fully aware. I thought that might make the act easier for you, knowing it wasn't truly a person. It seemed to help Luthor reach his decision." His grip on my shoulders tightens, and I'm sure he looks up in time to catch the tiny wince that I can't fully hold back. "I'm asking you to beat a corpse and claim responsibility. I'll handle killing it, and everything else."

"Why don't you do your _own_ dirty work?" he asks, in something dangerously close to a snarl. I didn't know he could speak in a voice that didn't have some kind of laughter in it.

"I," I swallow, the same unnerved feeling in my gut as when I'd looked at my clone, with its huge blue eyes. "I am incapable of randomness, my work would be obvious." It feels like an excuse, but it's true. "If I was capable of performing this entire deed myself, then I would, but I cannot mimic you."

"There's a relief," the clown says with an iron-edged laugh. "Thought I might be getting rusty, only doing shows in alleys like this." He releases me, and I resist the urge to raise a hand to my aching shoulder. "Why me, kid? There are dozens of us, you singled _me_ out. Why?"

I thought I'd said it, but I guess I'll explain again. "He _has_ to believe it. Can _you_ imagine any other so-called hero killing me, especially in a way so public and violent? You are the only one with a reason serious enough to justify a murder like that, and the insanity will help fill in any doubts he may have. Owlman knows that you would probably kill either of us, if you got a true chance at it on a bad day. Any other hero, and he might look too closely to be deceived. I need _you_."

The clown looks almost sickened, but gives a small nod. "Fair enough," he admits, with another broken laugh.

"Also," I begin, and I actually have to clear my throat to force the rest of the words past. "I believe you are the only hero I can _truly_ trust to keep this a secret, even if you don't agree to help." Green eyes widen, and I keep my face carefully neutral. "If the hero I told, told Owlman, even if he didn't believe it, it would go very badly for me." I don't think the Jokester will tell Owlman, they're both too embittered for that, but that's no guarantee that he'll help me, either. He may hate Bruce, but he has almost as much reason to hate me, too.

"The grumpy bird's got a mean streak alright," the Jokester says, almost cheerfully. "Alright, kid, I'll do it. Tell me exactly what you need."

Some tiny, hidden part of me eases, relaxing into relief, and I take a moment to force it back into being cold and hard. The last thing I need is to stumble, now that I've finally gotten all my players together. "When we're ready, I'll bring the clone to you. Once it's dead, work it over with the crowbar — I'll bring that, too — and I'll have the equipment set up to broadcast. It will just be a body in my suit, and I'll need you to publicly claim my murder. I'll take care of the bombs, the broadcast, everything. All I need is a little hands-on work from you, and a little acting. You'll have to take me down in a fight, get Owlman distracted long enough to haul me off. I can show you where to hit to break the tracker in the suit, that's happened before. For now, just wait. I have to have a reason to go back to LexCorp, and that could be a long time."

"Sounds like fun!" The Jokester's voice has an edge to it, but I don't comment. "I guess it might be therapeutic to let loose on something that looks like you, Harley's _always_ telling me I need therapy. Like anything can fix me now!"

"You're not the only one who can't be fixed," I offer, almost like the two of us could actually be called more than enemies, and his grin gets a little smaller.

"No, kid. I guess I'm not."

* * *

It's months before Bruce sends me back into LexCorp, I guess what I gathered last time was enough to keep Ultraman busy for a while. I know that these trips are only to appease the superhuman who calls himself Bruce's equal, to make sure that his interference in Gotham is minimal. Bruce might tolerate Superwoman's presence, but her Kryptonian husband isn't welcome. Gotham is Bruce's playground, filled with all his favorite toys, and woe to anyone who enters it without his permission. He probably has enough information on Luthor's projects to distribute for years to come, but the big man won't accept just being handed scraps of information. Sending me is an easy way to make it seem like Bruce actually cares at all for the others' desires.

I collect my information easily enough, shipping details and other such things, things the Kryptonian won't need to think about to take advantage of. The clone is harder. Even with all of my planning, and my knowledge of every blind spot in this week's version of our security system — the Jokester's gang does a good job of destroying surveillance, I admit, though Bruce never will — it's still a close thing getting the sedated clone back undetected. Owlman is off in Star City that night, helping Red Archer — Queen has never shied from asking and/or demanding help, just to make life simpler for himself — with one of his nastier heroes, and that's probably the only reason I manage it.

However, with that done, and the clone safely in the Jokester's hands, the hardest part of my plan is done. If, that is, you don't count the actual need to escape from Gotham after this is done.

I set everything that's needed up in one of Gotham's many abandoned warehouses, over the course of dozens of solo patrols and another couple months of time. The warehouse I choose is one that's well known among Gotham's underground, and heroes, as one that Owlman's patrol route regularly takes him over. Bruce checks it, or sends me to check on it, once every four months or so, and we've never found anything in it. It isn't a stretch to think that the Jokester would make his statement in a building so obvious, that's so direct a challenge. Gathering the supplies is easy enough, and the Jokester's group takes good care of the clone in my absence. I don't bother warning the clown not to make an emotional attachment to the creature; I know it's pointless.

Bruce's mood gets gradually worse as the months pass, and I'd be tempted to think he knew what I was planning, if I wasn't _absolutely_ sure that if he knew, I'd be dead, or so deep in agony I might as well be dead. That does leave me in the unenviable position of having to ease around Bruce like he's a bomb set to a pressure switch, with the same quality of exploding at the slightest provocation. Even worse, I don't know _why_ he's like this, and that's a dangerous thing to be unaware of.

The cave is dark when I slip into it, only the dim glow of the large computer screens lighting the huge space. My footsteps are silent as I cross the darkened area, shadows never anything but a comfort to me, and head up to change out of my suit. It's nearly dawn, and I have maybe an hour to sleep and fix my appearance before Bruce will expect me to accompany him to the Wayne Enterprises headquarters for some huge business breakfast. I'll probably get the chance to sleep for a few more after that, but patrols and corporate business schedules don't mesh particularly well. It's just a fact in the dual life of a villain's living weapon, and adopted son of the billionaire Bruce Wayne. Not that being his 'son' means anything outside of the spotlight.

"Talon," comes the sharp voice, and I halt in my tracks. I turn my head, fixing the white films hiding my eyes onto the one darker shadow hidden almost perfectly among the others. Bruce doesn't move from his chosen spot, and if I wasn't so well trained it would be easy to lose him again, even knowing where he is. He's in the suit of Owlman, the dark grey metal painted in dark shades of matte black and grey, nothing shiny to betray him.

I stay where I am, in one of the brighter spots of the cave, waiting for some hint of what my mentor wants from me. Eventually he takes a step towards me, his metal boots whisper-soft against the equally metal floor of the cave. Spandex and reinforced body armor only worked for so long, until Bruce needed a suit that made him capable of standing up against the super strength used by his rivals. It's not enough against Ultraman, but it does well enough against Superwoman.

"Jokester and his group are planning something," Bruce says quietly, standing perfectly straight. "They've been too quiet recently. I'll make your excuses, go back out and figure out what that something is. I don't like this silence." Ah, that explains the mood. I guess I've been too busy walking on my knife's edge to notice that the Jokester hasn't been causing as much chaos as usual.

I bow my head, giving an equally quiet, "Yes, sir." I glance up the long row of stairs, at the hidden entrance to the manor. I should still really catch at least a half hour of sleep, my equivalent of a normal person's nap. "Now?"

The gauntleted fist crashes into my cheek, and I remember, too late, that Bruce is still in a very dangerous mood. I fall, rolling and coming up in a low crouch, ignoring the feeling of blood gathering at the corner of my mouth. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and as my heart rate picks up some of my exhaustion falls away. I have no idea how much sleep Bruce has gotten recently, but obviously it's more than me, because I can't even pretend to keep up with him. His booted foot crashes into my ribs, at least one of which I can feel crack, and the impact sends me skidding across the metal floor and into the base of the computer.

He approaches, in no particular hurry, and I get to my feet with the ease of practice. My breath is slow and even, and it stays that way even as he grabs me by the front of my suit — the claws at the end of his gauntlets leaving small puncture holes in the fabric over my armor — and slams me down over the console below the screen.

" _Now_ ," he hisses, and I can imagine the narrowing of bright blue eyes even if I can't actually see them. He releases me, and turns on his heel to stalk up the stairs to the manor.

I let out a low breath as soon as I hear the distant click of the manor entrance, and raise my hand to wipe the blood off my face. It's still wet, and probably now smeared across my skin, but it blends right in with my red gloves. I stand and, with a last glance up the stairs, head back out. Generally, neither of us work in daylight, but it does happen sometimes. With me especially; Bruce hardly ever does. The police know better than to hassle Bruce or me, but it still minimizes some of the 'terror of the night' that we both rely on.

I spend hours on the rooftops, the sun struggling vainly to break through the thick clouds hovering over most of Gotham, trying to ignore the yawning pit in my stomach and the faint tremors in my muscles. The last time I slept more than an hour was five days ago, and while I can handle two or three – and still be active – easily, this much work with that little sleep is pushing the boundaries of my tolerance. It isn't particularly unusual for Bruce to disregard my human needs, but he usually doesn't take it to this kind of extreme either. After all, I'm _significantly_ less capable when I'm this sleep deprived, and my mentor prefers when I'm useful.

Then the question becomes, is this on purpose? Is Bruce so distracted, and frustrated, by the Jokester's silence that he's forgetting I'm still human, or is he deliberately overworking me to curb that same frustration? I, honestly, really wish I knew. If it's the former, a few carefully picked words should be enough to get him to allow me to rest, but if this is intentional then those same words will earn me a lot of pain that I'm in no condition to handle. I suppose there's no point in risking it. I'm _going_ to collapse soon enough; Bruce won't have much choice but to let me sleep after that.

Eventually, after watching two separate gang fights — nothing I need to fix — I do stumble across Harlequin. She's not anywhere near where we suspect the Jokester's hideout is, but she is in full costume. So, others must be nearby. The Jokester doesn't let any of his gang go anywhere alone, not in our city. It's a good decision.

I drop down onto the street in front of her, with significantly less grace than I am accustomed to having, and her hands snap to one side of her costume to grasp the mallet there.

"Who else is here?" I demand, as she hefts the mallet threateningly.

If the Jokester is here with her, than this is a prime time to set my plan into motion. Bruce will be busy for at least a few more hours, and more importantly my already weakened state will make it more likely that this time, of all times, the psychotic hero could manage to take me down.

"Aw, sweetie, I don't remember sending you an invitation!" The exhaustion in me is irritated, but at the same time I appreciate her discretion. She has no idea if Owlman is nearby, and I'd rather she be too cautious than not enough. I really did pick a good group of accomplices.

"None of you goes anywhere alone," I hiss, watching from the corners of my vision as the street around us mysteriously clears. "Who _else?_ " I can't be too careful either, not without knowing who's with her. I've only had direct contact with Jokester about this, and I only taught _him_ exactly where to hit to crush the tracker in my suit.

I get the answer to my query in the form of a roar, and a monstrously sized hand crashing into my side and flinging me into the store front that Harlequin and I are standing in front of. It's a fairly nice cafe, I notice, as I crash through the glass window and slam into the counter at the cash register. Unfortunately, the side I impact with is the side that has my recently broken rib, and the pain is enough to prevent me from doing anything more than sliding to the floor in a puddle of black and red.

I must be _seriously_ riding the coattails of exhaustion if I didn't notice _Croc_ , of all the heroes, behind me. He's not exactly subtle.

I try to push myself up, but my head spins, and my arm won't support my weight any farther than a few inches. I look up, and my strained nerves relax a bit at the sight of _three_ figures, not two. Croc, Harlequin, and there's Jokester, right in the middle. He's backlit by what little sun there is, but it's hard to mistake his scrawny, brightly colored form for anyone else's.

I give him the tiniest of nods, a small dip of my chin that could easily be dizziness, and fight a little harder to get to my feet. This will be easier if he can get a clear shot at my chest, and I'd rather not have anyone kick the other side of my ribs. This is going to be bad enough as it is.

"One broken little Talon," the Jokester says with a laugh that sounds vicious even to my ears. Now wouldn't it be interesting if he just decided to kill me here and now, damn the show? It should probably scare me that I honestly can't guarantee that the Jokester won't do it, but it doesn't. "Where's the Owl you came from, little thing?"

I bare my teeth at him, managing to get far enough up to clutch at my injured side with one arm, and use the counter to support myself with the other. This actually couldn't have gone much better. I'm in no condition to fight off even one of them, let alone three. I'll fight for real, to make this as realistic as possible for whatever cameras might be in here, but the takedown won't be an act.

The Jokester holds his hand out, and Harlequin gives him her mallet with a grin eerily similar to his, and a small giggle. He holds it with one hand, spinning it. "Croc, hold him for me, will ya?"

I reach into my belt, flashing out several of my projectiles, hooked and deadly sharp metal, and they dive out of the way. Croc, always unnaturally fast for his size, grabs my right arm before I can throw any more, as Jokester and Harlequin circle to my other side. I push pain to the back of my mind, flipping against his hold and slamming both feet into his chest, but he doesn't do more than grunt in pain, grabbing my other arm in the second I take to steady myself and dragging me closer. His scaled forehead slams into mine, and my world flashes a mixture of black, white, and red from the pain. I'm pretty sure my nose is broken.

I get spun, pinned back against Croc by arms roughly the size of my torso, and it's only that grip that keeps me standing. Dimly, through the spinning mess my vision has become, I see Jokester step in front of me, and the mallet swing to one side in preparation. I give some semblance of a kick upwards at him, but it doesn't come close to connecting, and the mallet crashes into my chest with a heavy 'whumph' that drives all air from my lungs. I hear a crack, and it takes me a moment to realize it's the plastic of the tracker, and not another of my ribs going.

I hang limply in Croc's grasp, as the Jokester laughs, in no way as an act. If this was real, or is real, this is the end of it.

" _Talon_ ," snarls a voice in my ear, Bruce's voice. I feel nails scratch along the outside of my ear, and then the communicator is pulled from it.

"My feathery friend," the Jokester exclaims, "how _are_ you?!" I can't hear Bruce's reply, but the Jokester gives a loud cackle of laughter. "Bird-boy? Oh I'm sure he's _fine_ , though now you mention it he _does_ look a little tired. Have you been abusing your pets again, Owly?" The voice is unusually mocking, and a few moments later he gives one of his more vicious laughs. It's probably sad that I know this lunatic's laughs well enough to differentiate between them. "Best come find him, feather-brain. Owls should be _nocturnal_ , you know?"

The crunch of plastic barely reaches my ears, but the impact of the Jokester's fist against my cheek comes through loud and clear. I really, _really_ would like them to stop picking the parts of me that are already injured to punch. Is that accidental, or is that the Jokester just choosing to be nastier than he has to? I suppose that will make this more believable, when Bruce inevitably views whatever cameras are in this cafe.

It's all in the Jokester's hands now.

* * *

I'm almost surprised that I wake up. I start to shift, to rise, and immediately decide that it's probably not a good idea.

"Easy, kid," a man's voice says, the Jokester, without a doubt, and a hand clasps over my left shoulder. It's one of the few bits of me that doesn't ache, and he's probably right anyway. Moving, as much as instinct and training insists that I should, likely won't do me much good.

I flick my eyes open instead, finding my vision still covered by my mask, though the area around my left eye seems fairly badly swollen. I tilt my gaze to the side, finding the Jokester in a chair next to me, book open on his lap but his eyes fixed on me. "How long?" I ask, roughly. My voice is more nasal than usual, but that's a result of the ache that is my broken nose.

"A couple of hours," a woman's voice answers, and Harlequin steps into view behind Jokester, winding arms around his shoulders as she leans down. "You were all beat to hell, sweetie, you get in a fight with one of the gangs or somethin'?" I think she's mocking me for a few moments, until I read the legitimate compassion in her eyes and tone. She must be talking about what they _didn't_ do to me, the things that Bruce is responsible for. It's strange, having concern like that aimed at me. "The Owl?"

"We're at the warehouse?" I ask, instead of answering her, and Jokester nods. "Clone too?" Another affirmative, though his eyes narrow a bit. It hurts to speak, but I've spoken through worse injuries. My jaw isn't broken, I'll be fine. I push myself up, ignoring both the pain of my beaten form and the hand trying to gently push me back down. "We probably have three hours, if I've been out for two, more if you were _very_ careful, and lucky, but we shouldn't count on it."

"Woah," Harlequin says, as I manage to fully sit up, "Doc said you've got one broken rib, three fractured, and all the beginning signs of sleep deprivation and starvation. You shouldn't be moving around, sweetie."

"I'm not you," I counter sharply, shrugging off the Jokester's hand, "and I want this done and over with as quickly as possible. It's too late to hide anything now, either he catches us or he doesn't. Show me to the clone, and bring me the blue duffel bag that's beside the camera."

The Jokester snaps his book shut, setting it on the ground, and brushes his legs off as he stands. "Alright then, time to kill you, eh bird-boy?" Harlequin looks none too pleased, something like a pout on her lips, but she doesn't argue. "Need a hand?" He offers me one, regardless, and I pause a moment before taking it. He helps me to standing, and I have to stop for a moment once I'm there to quell the dizziness in my skull. "Overdid it, didn't I?" he says, seemingly cheerfully. " _Sorry_ , I guess, but you're a pain to knock out." He laughs, as though he's told the funniest joke, as I breathe through my teeth to overcome the pain.

"I know," I answer, once his cackles have died down, "it's how I'm-" I halt on the edge of saying 'built', because that's not right. "Conditioned," I settle on.

Harlequin winces, but Jokester only lets his natural grin transition to an actual one. "Should be over now, right, kid?"

"If we stop wasting time," I almost snarl. "The clone, and the bag. _Now_." It almost surprises me, and I can tell by the way Harlequin and the Jokester flinch it surprises them too, how very close to Bruce I sound, saying that word. "If you don't mind," I add, in some effort to ease the uncomfortable knot in my stomach.

They scatter, and soon enough the Jokester returns with my bag, the one I've put some civilian clothes into, and a minute later Harlequin leads the clone over. My gut tightens at those wide blue eyes, and the little smile on its lips. I ruthlessly cut the reaction down. It's just an animal, no matter that it shares my looks, and it needs to die for my survival. I will _not_ feel guilt for that, or I risk having to feel guilt for every other thing I've done, or been forced to do.

"Excuse me," I say curtly, shouldering the bag — despite the pain — and taking the clone with me, to a corner safely away from the two of them. I strip the clone down first, as it watches me, and then retrieve my clothes from the bag before I begin to remove the suit. I leave the mask for last, pulling my aching, bruised, body into normal civilian clothes — including a dark blue hoodie, that I pull up to hide my face, and a pair of black gloves — before I haltingly peel the small domino mask from my face. It feels strange, nothing like stepping into the persona of Richard Grayson, but I swallow it down in favor of completing my task. I pull the clone into my suit, finally placing the mask on its face to complete the illusion, and grit my teeth despite the sharp flash of pain.

Suddenly, the clenching in my gut is gone. This _thing_ isn't me. I've _never_ looked like this thing does in my suit. His posture is anything but perfect, and that stupid little smile on his face is _nothing_ that I have ever worn, or ever will. This is meat in a suit, I am a _weapon_. I am the Talon of the Owl I served, and I will never feel anything over killing, least of all guilt.

I reach out and snap its neck.

Harlequin looks on the verge of horror when I drag the corpse over and throw it at the Jokester's feet. "Your turn," I say coldly, nodding to the center of the warehouse, where the camera is set up, and the crowbar lies beside it. It's such an unassuming piece of metal, but Harlequin looks at it like it's a bomb — those are on the opposite side of the warehouse, to be hooked up beside the corpse later — or some equally dangerous weapon of mass destruction.

"Jay," she says quietly, almost pleading, but he only gathers her into a hug and gives me a sharp grin.

"Promised the boy, didn't I?" he says, and I know it then and there. The Jokester will never forgive me for asking him to do this, he will always hold resentment in his heart for what I'm about to force him to do. It's nearly enough to make me wish that I still had more than the barest traces of emotions left in me, that Bruce had left me with more than that. To make me wish that I could feel sorry for making a moral, if insane, man participate in something like this. But only almost.

They share a quiet conversation, as I tune out and sit back down on the metal bench they initially laid me out on. One hand goes idly to my side, and I allow my eyes to close. Being unconscious isn't quite like sleeping, but it has helped, marginally, with my exhaustion. It should be enough to get me out of Gotham, get me to somewhere safe enough that I can hole up for a night. I've done some research on where it might be safe to go to ground — it's best to act like I'm hiding from Bruce, even if he falls for this — but from here on out it will be more reactionary than planned. It would have been far too dangerous to do any true research around Bruce.

I open my eyes as I hear the soft footsteps, Harlequin's slipper-like shoes, as opposed to the Jokester's boots. I watch her leave the warehouse, slipping out a side door with barely even a creak of hinges, and take a moment to pray that she'll stay out of sight, wherever she's going. I get to my feet, feeling short beside the lanky form of the Jokester.

"They're going to hate me, you know," he says cheerfully, but beyond the glinting madness in his eyes is a sadness. "Anyone who doesn't know."

"Yes," I admit, "I considered that outcome." The Jokester's gang, at least whoever he's shared this with, will know what's going on, as will Luthor. But the rest of the heroes will _not_ look kindly on one of their own committing an act like this, even if it is on a villain. "Can you handle that?" They likely won't act against him; it's well known that the Jokester is one of the only things keeping Owlman in check — and _every_ hero knows to be at least wary of my creator — but he'll certainly lose a lot of whatever kind of sway, or respect, he has in those circles.

"People, hating _moi_?" His grin still has those sharp edges, and his head is cocked sideways. "Gee, _that's_ never something that I've dealt with before. How _will_ I manage?" He leans down, grasping the clone by the back of my suit, dragging it behind him as he strides towards the center of the warehouse. If the weight bothers him — the clone is, after all, just as heavily muscled as I am — it doesn't show. I follow him, circling around to stand behind the turned off camera and out of the way of any potential blood splatter. He drops the clone, and catches the crowbar when I toss it to him.

His white hands clench around the metal, green eyes staring down at it. He spends a few moments just looking at it, before hefting it and bringing it down on the clone. The crunch of bone is audible. Collapsed as it is, the clone looks much more like me, with no inaccurate posture or smile to give it away as an imposter. Beat it badly enough to give it at least some semblance of my current injuries — or cover it with enough blood that it won't matter — and Bruce shouldn't be able to tell the difference without an examination, one that he won't get.

The second blow comes down at a strange angle, the hook at the edge driving into the corpse's throat, and when the Jokester pulls it back the flesh rips open. Blood sprays from the violent wrench, scattering over the floor and onto the clown's costume. He freezes, and for a moment I think I'll have to goad him back into the act, before he begins to laugh. He goes back at the corpse with a violence I didn't think he was really capable of, and loud, cackling laughter fills the warehouse. Blood slowly covers the floor around the clone, and most of the front of the Jokester's costume too.

I try very hard not to think about the psychological implications of killing myself, to save myself.

Eventually he stops, though he's still giggling to himself, and turns to me. His green eyes are wide, fevered, and the manic grin stretching his lips doubles as violently bared teeth. It's probably the most unhinged I've ever seen him. " _Enough?!_ " he asks, as something in between a snarl and a shrieking laugh.

I glance down at the corpse, taking it in, and give the clown a nod. He immediately drops the crowbar, the metal clang of it hitting the cement floor not at all lessened by the pool of blood it falls into. I reach for the camera, and the laptop set beside it. It's a gift from Luthor, with a few modifications of my own. It's set up to hijack nearly every signal in Gotham, including some of Bruce's less sophisticated ones. It won't hack the Owl computer, but nearly everything else should be affected. It's also _very_ traceable, so we'll probably have about ten minutes once I turn it on before Bruce finds us. I can only hope that he isn't on top of us, and we get those ten minutes.

I click it on, and turn on my heel to retrieve the bombs stored against the wall. From behind me, I hear the Jokester give a truly psychotic laugh, his voice rising in both pitch and volume. " _Owly!_ You missed the party, my friend! Where _were_ you?! Bird-boy and I had _so_ much fun with party games, but I think I wore the _poor_ little thing out!" Another laugh, and I turn around, the constructed bomb in my arms, in time to see him run a bloody left hand over his face and through his purple hair. It leaves a bright streak of red across the white skin of his cheek and forehead, and a demented giggle falls through his equally red lips.

"Guess it's the day to _declaw_ you, Owly," he shifts aside, letting the camera's gaze fall on my supposed corpse, "I already got _one!"_ He bursts into the same howling cackle from earlier, as I halt behind the computer, taking a brief glance down to make absolutely sure that it's broadcasting. It is. There's probably a lot of newly traumatized people, but I can't find it in me to feel much of anything about that. This is Gotham, after all. We aren't Metropolis, or Star City, or any of the other dozen major cities that hide behind shining steel structures. Gotham is dark, gritty, violent, and every once in a long, _long_ while, the heroes win. Usually in ways that they don't like. Anyone who doesn't believe that doesn't belong here, and probably won't survive very long.

I let the cackles continue for a minute or so before shutting off both the camera and the laptop, moving forward with the bomb. I set it up as close as I can get without stepping in the blood — last thing I need is anything linking me here — before straightening up. The cackle has turned into giggles, as the Jokester stares down at his hands. I'm starting to realize that giggles are very likely the Jokester's version of grief, a broken version that he just can't _stop_.

I was right. Bruce and I destroyed this man, tore his world apart; it could only make sense for _him_ to do this.

"We've got three minutes until it blows," I remind him, and he stutters into action. He follows me, leaving a trail of bloody prints, as I cross to the warehouse's backdoor exit, where Harlequin vanished. He's still spitting out little fits of giggles, but otherwise he's quiet. The Jokester takes the lead from there, slipping under the torn chain fence surrounding the abandoned building, down a back alley, and three buildings down to an equally abandoned apartment building. It's got recent evidence of someone kicking down the boards to get in through the alley door.

The Jokester shoves his way in, and I wince as the door screeches against the floor. Harlequin is there, sitting against the wall, and she dives for the clown as soon as he's all the way in. Their embrace is tight, and she doesn't seem to care that the blood from my clone is getting all over her costume.

"Is it done?" she asks, and for once the Jokester doesn't do more than nod.

I take a step forward, and both their gazes turn to me. "Thank you," I offer, bowing my head a bit. "He'll come after you, be careful."

The Jokester takes in a deep breath, and lets go of Harlequin to fully face me. "You could help here, kid," he says quietly, seriously. "There's always room in the family." I pause, but don't even truly consider the offer. I am not a hero, I will _never_ be a hero, and I'm certainly not the kind of person to join up with Jokester and his group. What would I do with a family, anyway? Since my original one was murdered I've only been part of Bruce's, and that's not a legacy that could ever be considered to be a 'family', in the common sense of the word.

But I really do owe the hero, without his help this would have been much harder, probably impossible, and I'd still be under Bruce's heel.

"The names you need to know are: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Hal Jordan, and Oliver Queen. Those are some of the big ones, the ones who even bother having secret identities, anyway. That should give you somewhere to start. I'll send contact information when I have it. If there is _no other option_ ," I stress that part significantly, "and you need me, I'll come. But don't expect me to be anything but what I am."

They don't ask, and I don't say, but the words ring in my head as I turn and leave, pulling the hoodie more securely over my head.

I am _Talon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! So, first things first, if you enjoyed this please go read TrisakAminawn's story on FF ' **Cirque De Triomphe** ', I can honestly say it's pretty much the only other Earth-3 story I've run across that is just fantastic. She, and that story, are the reason that this ever made it out of my head, even though I had the idea in my head for months beforehand. She's awesome and, also, she doubled as an absolutely wonderful beta for this story. Go, read her things (they are, seriously, so good)!
> 
> Secondly, the specific continuity notes! Alexander Luthor is just Lex, he's not the crazy backwards-Shazam from Forever Evil. (That was a strange thing.) Enigma is the hero version of the Riddler, and of course Croc is Killer Croc. The Jokester is not quite the match for his psychopathic mirror, Joker, but he's still definitely not 'sane' by any stretch of the imagination. Owlman's suit is the one from Crisis on Two Earths, where it was proved that it made him more than a match for Wonder Woman's strength (that suit, mmmm, it's so good). And yes, that is Jason Todd's death from the normal universe, I repurposed it for Dick's use.
> 
> (Also, when I first made this, I really wanted to call it 'And Then One With the Crowbar!'.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> tl;dr — TrisakAminawn is awesome, read her stuff; Earth-3 has eaten me.


	2. Under the Shadow of an Owl's Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I have a second chapter of this for you guys! This is partially going up because I'm not quite finished with the second chapter of 'The Minutes Till My Heartbeat Stops.' I've got one last scene to write in that chapter, but then it's concluded. Until then, here's the next of this story I have way too much of, and never gets around to its slashiness. Seriously, there is _so much slash buildup_ in this story, but it isn't until chapter 18 that one character finally goes, 'Hey, you guys are totally perfect for each other. I ship it! I'm going to make this happen!' I kind of wish that was less exactly accurate, but I swear I have no control over these characters.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter's **warnings** are: References to Physical/Emotional/Mental abuse of a teenager, and reference to the creation of the Jokester (which was _not_ a fun time for anyone).

The phone rings, and instantly I freeze. I let myself curl down, hanging by my knees from the workout bar, and fix my upside down gaze on the bottom drawer of my desk. It rings again.

I release my grip, coming down on my hands and easily bouncing the momentum back up to flip to my feet. I cross the room, leaning down and pulling the drawer open, retrieving the ringing phone. Only one person has the number for this particular device, so when I swipe the screen to answer it, holding it up to my ear, I don't say anything. There's silence for a moment, and then a woman's voice comes through.

" _We need you,"_ she says simply.

"Where are we meeting?" I ask, sitting down on top of my mostly bare desk. The why is irrelevant; I only need enough facts to get there and find them. I told them to only ever call if there was no other option, and regardless of insanity I'm fairly sure that the Jokester will stick to that request. If they're calling me, that means they need something done that none of their 'hero' friends can do. Something important.

" _Train station near downtown?"_ she suggests.

"Done. Three to four hours." I hang up. Methodically, I deconstruct the phone, destroying each part individually.

It's been four years since I've heard from them. I keep a decently close eye on Gotham, as much as I can, but mostly it's to know what Bruce will do next. As far as I'm aware, he bought my faked death completely, but it still would _never_ be a good idea to turn a blind eye that direction. If anyone is going to discover me, even this late in the game, it will be Bruce. Better to overestimate the man rather than underestimate him, though I like to think I have a pretty good grasp on what he is, or isn't, capable of.

I circle my apartment, gathering the important bits of my new existence into a backpack. Cash, various faked forms of identification, a single change of clothes, gloves, and some basic makeup and hygiene tools. If this goes badly, if whatever they need brings me back into Bruce's sphere of attention, I'll need the materials to give me some kind of alternate face to get back out of Gotham. If this goes _very_ badly, I just might end up in the Jokester's group after all. I'm good, in fact I'm _very_ good, but I don't know if I have the skill to avoid Bruce when he's actively hunting me. Which he will, likely with single minded purpose. He's the one that taught me, after all.

From there, I get down to the much more important bit of preparation. The small collection of weapons and tools I have left over from my days as Talon — projectiles, exploding capsules of both poisonous and sedating gases, single shot tasers, and a dozen other various implements of varying lethality — I store in fifteen hidden pockets inside my more outward items of clothing; six in my black cargo pants, hanging over dark brown steel-toed boots — which are home to a knife each, three in my plain midnight blue t-shirt, and the last six in my black hoodie. The hoodie is a socially accepted way to hide my face, and in a town where you never know if Ultraman might be floating miles above you, staring down, it's all I can get away with. There have been a few close calls — the worst when I came within a block of a firefight that Bruce had been called in to help with, and didn't know that fact until he was thrown into a building barely three-hundred feet away from me — but it's not a terrible place, and I know that Bruce monitors Metropolis a lot less fanatically than many other cities.

Ultraman isn't hard to fool, but he can get very nasty when he eventually catches on. Bruce isn't afraid of him, not in the slightest, but he _is_ smart enough not to provoke the Kryptonian if he doesn't have to.

The handgun — an easy thing to get in _any_ city, if you know where to look — goes into my backpack with my more basic supplies. Bruce never taught me to use a gun, he disliked the amount of noise they made, but it wasn't hard to learn. It isn't subtle, but it's a far less obvious way to defend myself. People might get suspicious — and have, the one or two times I've had no other choice — if I suddenly break into advanced acrobatics and skilled martial arts in response to threats. They're both rather distinctive skills, and I'd like to keep my trail of witnesses, and therefore bodies, fairly small, in case anyone comes looking. A gunshot wound is a much easier thing to dismiss as normal than a broken neck or spine.

Everything else, my laptop included, I leave behind. There's nothing on it that's incriminating, and it's a decently heavy hunk of metal. If I have to run, I don't want _anything_ on me that will slow me down.

I sling the backpack over my shoulder and slip out of my apartment, locking it behind me just in case I _do_ get the chance to come back. I'll admit it's not the likely option, but if I do miraculously get that chance, I don't want to come back to a ransacked home. The key, I tuck into one of the original pockets in my pants.

My apartment building is a decent ways off the busier streets, but the walk is anything but difficult. Properly fed, not covered in bruises (or worse), and with an actually decent amount of sleep? It's like a holiday. In fact, the entirety of these four years — after the initial months of paranoia — has been a holiday. I'm still pulling off crimes, mostly small thefts, to supplement the various short-term jobs — in the fields that are a little less strict about proper documentation — that have been my primary source of income, but those are easy in comparison to what I was used to. I'm careful not to draw the attention of what few heroes still roam the actual streets of Metropolis, and they've got much more dangerous things to worry about than me, so it works out.

Well, perhaps not more _dangerous_ , but things that certainly _want_ to cause them harm. As long as they don't stumble across my small jobs — and none have, so far — I couldn't care less about their activities.

It's the middle of the night, almost three in the morning, but the streets are anything but deserted. It took me a long time to get used to the idea that this wasn't like Gotham. Just because it was the middle of the night, and there were actual people on the streets, didn't mean they were gang members, or other people looking to cause trouble. This city simply stays active for _much_ longer. Ultraman usually only shows up in the daytime — the Kryptonian needs his _sleep,_ after all — so in some ways, it's actually safer for the residents of Metropolis to go about their business during the night. Exactly the opposite of Gotham, where the sun sets and every sane person heads for the safety of either their home, or a bar.

Ultraman might think he rules Metropolis, but Bruce _rules_ Gotham.

Here, the automatic assumption isn't that everyone wants to hurt and/or kill me, and isn't _that_ something. Of course, not being Talon probably helps with that, too. People are less likely to run from you, or attack, when you're just one normal civilian among others. Talon was a target, my variety of fake identities are just more faces in the crowd.

I get to the more populated streets, and set to flagging down a taxi. I'm not a woman, or a group, so it takes a while. Eventually, one does pull up in front of me, and I slip inside. My backpack goes at my feet, and I close the door behind me.

"Where you headed?" the guy in front asks me.

"Gotham," I answer. The guy — scrawny, in his mid-thirties, and with the shadows of a beard — turns to look at me.

"Gotham?" he asks, nearly incredulously. "Why would you want to go there?"

I offer a shrug, leaning back against the seat. "Friends calling in a favor, that's all." The uncaring young twenties is a role I drop into with ease, one I've perfected over the last four years of freedom. I'm nineteen in reality, but my faked IDs paint me as older, and my musculature reinforces it. "Will you go that far?"

"Do you have the money for something like that?" His voice is disbelieving, suspicious.

"I do." More than, but he doesn't need to know that.

I bite back a sigh as his other hand comes into view, and at the gun in it that's now pointed at my head. Even in Metropolis. "Then leave the pack and get out of the car."

I snap my hand out, twisting his wrist and catching the gun as it drops, pinning his arm at a painful angle back behind his seat as he yelps. I aim the weapon back up at him, up the line of his arm to his head, as his expression transitions from surprised — and in pain — to afraid. I offer him a razor thin smile the moment I'm in position, still holding his wrist against the fake leather.

"Gotham, the downtown train station. I'll take the bullets, but you can keep your gun if you like, I'll even still pay you for the ride. Can we be professional, or do I pull the trigger?" I wouldn't, guns are loud and we're in a public area, but that's one more thing he doesn't need to know.

"Yeah," he agrees quickly, "alright. I'll get you there."

I release him, and he pulls his arm back, rubbing at his wrist. "Appreciated." I strip the gun apart, retrieving the bullets, and pocket them before I put it back together. Unnecessary, but in this case form _is_ function. The more intimidating I prove myself now, the less likely he is to do anything else I don't want him to. "Here," I say, offering him the reassembled weapon. He takes it with caution, and I ease back against the seat. Not relaxed, I'm never really relaxed, but not particularly on guard either.

He stores it away — beneath his seat, I'd guess — and pulls away from the curb with a shaky breath. "Christ, kid, I guess you _do_ belong in Gotham." I don't offer an answer, though my mood sours a bit at the reminder.

Yes, I do. These years in Metropolis definitely taught me that.

Gotham is a different beast altogether, a monster that devours anyone who can't cut it in her streets and doesn't have the healthy paranoia needed to live there. Metropolis is easy to live in, so unbelievably easy, in comparison. Being in a city so tame has been very strange, as has my life outside of being Talon. Richard Grayson might have been a public face, but I didn't have a life as him, I had a mask. Always, Bruce was hovering over my shoulder, waiting to catch me doing something with any skill level less than perfect.

Probably the strangest thing about it has been the free time.

I can't have a steady job, and I certainly couldn't finish school — not that Bruce was actually running me through a normal school program — since I can't risk leaving a paper trail behind. Even if my name and age are different, my face is the same. I know that Bruce runs facial recognition programs around the clock, looking for any face that he can pinpoint as a hero's. I have no idea if I'm on that list, though I shouldn't be, but if I am, that would be a remarkably dumb way to get caught. So apart from strange, under-the-table jobs, and my occasional crimes, I really don't have anything to do.

It's been a _very_ odd thing, not being expected to do anything. I don't have patrols, or training — though I've kept up with the same intensity of workouts, as best as I could manage inside my small apartment — there's no research to do, errands to complete, and there's no events to attend as my 'secret identity'. I can literally do anything I want to, as long as it isn't something that might bring me to Bruce's attention, and that freedom has been rather overwhelming.

People also seem to generally assume that eight hours — or so — of sleep are required each night, and given my training as Talon, that's something I can't conform to. Three or four is a luxury, but two hours a night is enough to keep me running just fine, since I'm not fighting with heroes every other day, or enduring being Bruce's punching bag. If I had anything but casual contacts, that oddity might have singled me out. Luckily, I'm nowhere near that settled. The only thing I had to concern myself with was neighbors, and I moved three times before finding a place that was just as 'no questions asked' as I needed. But not _too_ underhanded, not enough to grab the attention of either heroes _or_ villains.

There's a decently high chance of members of either side recognizing me, even if this isn't my hometown. Talon was high profile, the sidekick of the Owl, and even among the lower rungs of both groups that name is a well known one. Mostly because _I_ was the one who got sent out to deal with anything Bruce didn't consider worth his personal time, including other villains that stepped out of line. My errands took me all over the place, especially the major cities. Granted I've aged, changed a decent amount over the years I've been free — I'm not rail thin anymore, for one thing — but still, it wouldn't be a stretch to connect me to my old identity.

Sometimes, I can almost be grateful for Bruce's training, for teaching me all the skills necessary to hide. Then I recall the broken bones, the bruises layered over other bruises, and the early days of my training. That's always enough to erase any sense of gratitude.

No, Bruce is a mean bastard. He nearly beat and starved me to death, as some of the tamer ways of teaching me, and the incidental fact that it made me tougher doesn't mean I should be grateful for it. I can appreciate the skills, how much better honed and trained I am than any other human but him, but it is also true that I was a thing to him, not a person, and my abilities are a result of my own determination to survive. That was _me_ , not him. You don't praise a book for teaching you whatever knowledge it contains, and I won't praise Bruce's fists for teaching me not to feel pain so keenly.

As far as I'm concerned, there's all of one person in this entire world that I _owe_ anything, and he just called in the one favor he was entitled to.

The Jokester was the one who made it possible for me to get out from under Bruce's heel, even if it was my plan. Without his participation, I would have spent probably quite a few more years trapped before I found an alternative. No villain would have helped me, not if it meant going against Owlman and then _lying_ to him about it, and so few heroes — and even less that I came into direct contact with, and knew so well — had the moral ambiguity necessary to be reasonably considered capable of the murder I asked. Of that tiny fraction of heroes — anti-heroes, more accurately — the list of ones that I could both trust not to turn me in to Owlman, and might actually agree to help a killer like me, was beyond small.

Him. The clown, the madman, the Jokester.

Even settling in Metropolis, in those first few months of being extremely paranoid — sure that any moment Bruce would come smashing through my door, dragging me back to Gotham by the scruff of my neck — I still heard the backlash. It was on everyone's lips.

The Jokester had finally done it, he'd finally succumbed to his insanity. He'd murdered the Owl's sidekick, claimed it and broadcasted it for the whole of Gotham to know. What other hero but one that was truly insane could commit an act like that? At the same time, the darker half of the world said the things no one wanted to think about. The Jokester had _done it_. He'd proved that the villains weren't invincible, that they could be _killed_.

It wasn't a reaction that I considered when I was planning my own death, but it's one that, in retrospect, made things easier for me. The big league heroes, the ones that couldn't do anything but condemn the Jokester, were very quiet for a time. But the smaller heroes, and even the regular people, they surged up with a vengeance. The Crime Syndicate cracked down equally as hard, the higher level heroes stepped back in, and for a couple of months things were very close to chaos.

Thinking about it now, that might have significantly helped me. Gotham was the biggest hotbed of activity, and Bruce definitely had his hands full. That probably stopped him from scrutinizing the video with the level of precision that would have betrayed me. For example, who was operating the camera? The Jokester didn't turn it off, and it would be unlikely that any other hero in his group would have stood by and let the clown kill me, especially in the way I had him do it. I'm probably lucky my plan had such unintended consequences.

"Are you really going to Gotham for friends?" the driver asks, warily.

"Acquaintances, but I owe them," I say simply, turning my head to look out the tinted windows. "They're calling it in."

"Illegal acquaintances?" I look back, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror. He looks genuinely afraid, and I have to resist the ingrained Talon urge to give him one of my nastier grins, just to scare him even further. More habits that Bruce imprinted on my mind. The more scared the better, nearly always.

"Do you really want to know?" I ask, instead, and he gives a nervous laugh.

"Damn, no. Forget I asked, and I'll forget I ever gave you this ride."

"Deal."

* * *

They probably think that he's the most inconspicuous of them. The skinny man — though nothing like how scrawny the Jokester is — standing at just over six feet tall, leaning against the wall about fifteen feet left of the main entrance to the train station, certainly isn't in any kind of costume. It's plain brown slacks, and a black t-shirt, but the short, swept back brown hair is enough. Like most others of the Jokester gang, hiding his identity has always been secondary to his heroics. Even without the black sunglasses, the bright green and purple suit, and the question mark staff, I know who he is.

It's a little sad that they're actually right, he _is_ the least conspicuous of them. After you take into account the Jokester's disfigurement, as well as Dent's, Croc's appearance, Harlequin's rather public freeing of the Jokester from Arkham Asylum, it's certainly true that none of their gang can exactly walk the streets anymore.

I come up beside him, and it's probably some mixture of my leftover Talon instincts — never approach a target head on, _never_ — and him likely looking for a kid, but he doesn't notice me until I'm about three feet away, and I speak.

"Edward," I greet, and his head whips around. Green eyes, not as brightly colored as the Jokester's, find me, and after a moment they light up in realization.

"Kid, you actually showed up." He sounds a little shocked, and I don't blame him. Risking myself, for them? If I was in their position, knew what I'd done, I might have doubted it too.

"Yeah, I did. Shall we go? I'm not eager to be out in the open like this." I'm putting enough on the line here, I'd rather not be anywhere public for longer than necessary. The Jokester called me here, so at the least I'll listen to what he has to say, but making sure Bruce doesn't find out I'm alive comes in as my second motivation. I enjoy being alive, call me selfish.

Edward, Enigma, nods, and heads out into the streets of Gotham. I follow. It's a silent walk, and I become aware of something mildly disturbing on the way to wherever it is that he's leading me.

The alleys are empty.

Now, normally, that would be a fairly commonplace thing. But it's early, maybe an hour past dawn, and that's very well known as the safest time to be out conducting business that you want kept away from the eyes of Owlman. It used to be a time that I patrolled fairly regularly, but that didn't slow anyone down. Unless things have _drastically_ changed while I've been away, something is very wrong in the shadowed world of Gotham, and the citizens know it. I don't bring it up to the hero, but I file it away to ask the Jokester about if I'm going to be here for any length of time.

He leads me to one of the more crime-infested areas, to a small house sandwiched between an industrial building and several large — if shabby — apartment buildings. He knocks, and it opens to a blond woman that I recognize as Harlequin even without her mask and costume. Bruce knew nearly everything about these people, except where they were hiding, and therefore so did I.

She looks nervous, and glances me up and down once before beckoning us inside. The hoodie is probably hiding most of my face, as was the intention, and I'm both taller and thicker than she'll remember me being. The door closes behind us, and she leads us down the small corridor and into a living room. The Jokester is sitting on a couch that's seen better days, one leg crossed over the other, and his green eyes flick to us as we enter. I'd forgotten just how bright they are.

"Kid?" he asks, gaze narrowing.

"I'm here," I answer."What do you need from me?" The sooner it's done and I'm back out of Gotham, the better.

He stands from the couch — I'd also forgotten just how _jerky_ the Jokester's movements are — and heads towards us. "Thanks, Ed." Enigma turns, heading back out into some other part of the house, and the clown focuses on me. If he had the capacity to frown, I'm sure he would be, but the only real indication is his lack of a real grin and the lines between his brows. "It's Richard, right?"

Right. They would have seen my funeral, and since I more or less told them that Owlman was Bruce, they would have put two and two together. "That's right. Gotham's not safe for me, tell me what you need."

"Yeah, see, about _that_ ," he cringes, and my mouth flattens into a thin line. Oh, he _better_ have a reason for calling me here, or he can kiss my debt to him goodbye. "Just, come with me." He turns, and I grudgingly follow him across the living room and deeper into the house. He opens a door, holding it aside for me to precede him, and I step through. The sight makes me freeze, as Harlequin and the Jokester come in behind me. "See, _that's_ our problem."

The room looks like at one point it was someone's bedroom, but right now all the furniture is shoved back against the walls, with the exception of the chair in the center of the room, and the young man tied to it. He lifts his head before I can retreat — which would require shoving past both the heroes in between me and the door — and eyes covered in the white film of a mask fix onto me. There's a gag between his teeth, and he's bound fairly securely to the chair — not that it's a very sturdy looking chair — but that doesn't make him look much less dangerous.

How did I _not know_ that Bruce had found himself a second Talon?

He's in the same uniform that I had, the black and red tights that are reinforced with body armor, and he looks a lot less beat up than I'd expect for having been captured by heroes. He's got the same short black hair, a little longer than mine had been — but about how long it is now — and I'd bet the entirety of the cash I have on me that underneath the small mask his eyes are blue.

"Why am I here?" I demand in a hiss, angling my head to keep my face out of sight of the young man. Probably not much older than seventeen, even taking into account how much smaller Bruce's abuse will have made him.

Harlequin shuts the door, and I take a quick, sharp glance across the room to make _very_ sure that the two windows there are completely covered by their heavy curtains. "We're trying to save him," she says, surprisingly strongly. "He'd never trust us without you here."

 _Shit_.

I can't leave now, not without dealing with my replacement in some way. If he goes back to Bruce, even if he hasn't recognized me, he'll report my appearance. I have no doubt that, my older age aside, Bruce will recognize me. It's too bad that the heroes would try and prevent me just shooting the kid; that's the easiest way to end this. He'll stop being a threat to them, and Bruce will never be the wiser about my continuing existence. They wouldn't actually succeed in stopping me, but it's probably better not to alienate people that can tear what little life I have apart with a few words. I flick my gaze up, taking another glance at the completely still teenager, and my gut clenches. But he's _Talon_ , and I _know_ what that title comes along with. I _know_ how Bruce trains us.

No one deserves what he puts us through. If I can stop Bruce getting his claws into another one — if it isn't too late already — don't I owe it to the kid? Great, now I sound like a hero.

I shrug out of my backpack, holding it in my left hand, and take a single step forward before turning back to the Jokester and Harlequin. "It's not for you," I clarify sharply, "and it was a _stupid_ thing to bring me here, but I'll help him. Consider us _done_ when this is over."

"We're not looking for your help," Harlequin protests, holding both hands up, "just your presence. So he _knows_ he can trust us."

"You have no _idea_ how to handle him," I snap, and wish that it wasn't true. "I'll deal with him." Talon still has his damn _utility belt_ on, and if _anything_ proves that the Jokester doesn't know how to contain one of us, that's it. Heroes don't tend to take hostages, after all. If they try this, and he's trained even half as well as I am, the moment they let their guard down for even a second he'll be gone. _I_ can't risk that. Besides, they'll see the fact that he's young and victimized, and not that he's also Talon. They won't consider him half as dangerous as he is, and Bruce's training can't be undone with just kind words. He'll _need_ to be kept in line for a time. I look back at the teenager, unzipping my backpack and reaching inside for the black motorcycle gloves. The _last_ thing I want to leave here is fingerprints.

The kid jerks against the bindings, in a single sharp movement, and unfortunately I recognize it. I keep an eye on him, tossing the backpack to the ground, and pull the gloves onto my hands. Neither of the heroes try to stop me when I head towards my replacement, and when the ropes fall away and his right arm comes up, the small knife held securely in his fingers, I block it without looking and kick him in the chest. It's not nearly as hard as I could, but that doesn't mean that it's gentle. The chair shatters under him as he crashes to the floor, and I hear Harlequin give a horrified gasp. The knife goes skittering across the wood, and he lies there for a few moments, stunned. He must be pretty badly injured under his suit, or that wouldn't have been so easy.

"We'll need a new chair," I inform the two heroes behind me, glancing back to halt the Jokester at the first booted footstep. "Stay _right_ there," I hiss. "I won't kill him unless he's in danger of escaping, I promise nothing more than that."

"He's just a kid!" the Jokester nearly shouts, and my hands clench.

"He's _Talon_ ," I remind the clown, "not some civilian. He's young, not a kid." It's a double-edged reminder. The Jokester might call _me_ a kid, but I haven't truly been one since the first few months of Bruce's training, when I decided that I wanted to live, damn the consequences. I can guarantee that this new Talon is no more a kid than I was. "Like I said, you don't know how to handle him."

I won't be Bruce, I won't take my fists to this Talon except in self defense, but I _refuse_ to coddle him.

A burst of giggles escapes the Jokester, Harlequin's hand curls around the clown's arm, and I turn back to Talon as I hear the him stir. I step forward before he can get up, putting my knee in the center of his back and gathering his wrists into my hand. It's not my full weight, I make sure he can still breathe — I am _not_ Bruce — but it should be enough to keep him pinned. He fights me, of _course_ he does, but I'm stronger, bigger, and I know all of his tactics. I was the original.

I run my free hand across his suit, searching for the hidden knives, lock picks, and everything else I know Bruce has made sure he's got stashed away. I take his belt, too, tossing it across the room to join the growing pile of things I can't risk him keeping. Lastly, I hook my nails under the edge of his mask, peeling it off his face. He gives a violent sound of protest, but it's muffled behind the gag.

"A new chair," I repeat, looking up at the heroes. Harlequin is looking at the pile of weapons, and tools, with wide eyes, skin paler than normal. The Jokester just looks vaguely sad. "Some new rope too, though chain would be better." When they don't move, I clear my throat pointedly. "Now, would be best."

The Jokester tugs Harlequin from the room, the door closing behind them, and I take the opportunity to look down at the mask in my hand with something between revulsion and a hatred I honestly didn't know I could still feel. The kid struggles under me, and I press my knee a little harder into his back in reaction.

"Listen up, kid," and there _I_ go, calling him a kid. He's not, I _know_ that, and so does he. "Let's set one thing straight here. I'm not a hero, not like them, and I _will_ kill you before I let you escape." I drop the mask, letting it fall to rest on his right shoulder, and untie the piece of cloth serving as a gag. "Understand me?" I ask, quietly.

"Who _are_ you?" he demands in a snarl that is _far_ too angry, and I let up enough pressure to let him crane his head over his shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are blue, though they're a greener shade than Bruce's or mine. At least, in this small way, Bruce is _very_ predictable. I pick up the mask, holding the small thing up to my face, and offer him a thin smile, _Bruce's_ smile. He stares, eyes widening, and then they narrow to dangerous slits.

" _You,"_ he hisses, and the emotion in his eyes is kind of shocking. There's rage, pain, and something dark and haunted. More than should be in one of Bruce's weapons, ever. I toss the mask away, looking down at him, as his jaw clenches tight. "You're _dead_ , that psychopath killed you!"

It can't be more than four years, he definitely wasn't around while I was, but it has to have been at least two years since Bruce found him. Bruce kept me in training for two years before he let me out in the field, and I doubt he would change his tactics now. Until I betrayed him — and he doesn't know that — I was a model sidekick, the scariest. This Talon will have gone through more or less the same ordeal, and it has to have been that long if he was exposed to the Jokester. But if that's true, there's _no_ way that he should still be this _angry_. Bruce's training is beyond cruel; this kid's emotions should be just as shut down and buried as mine were. Maybe not quite so advanced — after all, I was under Bruce's heel for a little over nine years — but not like this either.

Bruce values appearing cold; how did this Talon avoid that?

"My plan," I answer shortly. "Escaping Bruce isn't easy, but you probably know that already." There's no mistaking the way the kid flinches, fear flashing sharply through his blue-green eyes. Seriously, how did he _ever_ get into the field this intact?

"You're a traitor?" the kid asks, unbelieving. "He's so _sure_ you're dead."

"That's good to hear," I remark, and glance up at the door. "What's your name?"

"Jason," this Talon answers grudgingly, after a few moments of staring at me.

"I'm—"

"Richard Grayson, I _know_. How'd you fake it?"

"A clone, a crowbar, some high-grade explosives, and the Jokester's help. Not easy, it took a long time to plan, but it got me out. If I didn't owe the Jokester one I wouldn't have ever stepped foot back into Gotham, but unfortunately I did. Perils of asking a man with morals to kill for you."

He's silent for a long time, oddly still beneath my pin, until finally he looks back up at me. "Think he'd buy it twice?" Jason asks, voice cracking, and my mouth tightens.

So, my replacement is about as loyal to Bruce as I was. He just hasn't found his own way out yet.

"Yes," I answer honestly. "Do you happen to have a handy clone lying around?" A tiny laugh jerks free of the younger Talon's throat, and he shakes his head against the ground. "Luthor could make you one, but it will take three years."

"Will I still be _me_ in another three years?" he questions, and I offer a small shrug of my shoulders.

"I don't know how you're you _now_ ," I admit. "How long has Bruce had you?"

A full body shudder this time, and those bright eyes clench shut for a moment. "Almost four years, I think?" Well, he didn't waste any time finding a replacement for me. Probably only long enough to quell the initial bit of chaos that my apparent death caused. I probably hadn't even been fully healed from Jokester's takedown of me — and Bruce's foul mood beforehand — when he picked this Talon up.

The only thing I can think is that Jason hasn't figured out what I did _very_ early on. That there was no escape from the demon that had captured me, and the only option was to survive until I could figure a way out. Things didn't get easier after that realization, but I dealt with them much better. For me, learning to shut down emotion was something that helped me live longer, and avoid more of Bruce's wrath; it was the best choice I had. Maybe Jason never made that decision.

Oh, _that's_ probably not good. Maybe that's why he seems much easier to take down than he should be. Bruce went at _me_ hard enough, and I was near perfect. How badly is this kid injured?

"If I let you up, will you run?" I ask.

"You'll kill me if I do, remember?" his voice is sharp, but not in the same way that Bruce's or my voice can be sharp. It's anger and pain, not ice. "I'm not suicidal."

I slowly ease my knee off his back — I don't miss the way he grits his teeth — and release his hands. I step back, giving him a bit of space, and reach up to strip the hoodie off my torso as he slowly gets up to standing. There's no point in hiding, everyone in the house knows who I am, and there are at least curtains over every window. Jason's a bit hunched, left arm hooked defensively around his stomach, but at least he's standing.

"Anything serious?" I ask, and then clarify, "By a normal person's standards?" Being a Talon means you can handle more than anyone else, but also that things that really _should_ be considered serious injuries are classified under 'get treated when you have the time' or, more likely 'it will heal on its own'. The multitude of scars on me, and the excessive damage done to my skeletal structure, is proof of Bruce's definition of a 'serious' injury.

Jason pauses, eyes closing for a moment, and then nods. He runs his free hand up most of his left side. "Broken," a tap to his left forearm, "cracked," another one to the outside of his upper left thigh, "cracked," and raises that hand to his left shoulder, "and probably dislocated."

I don't have to ask to know that not a single one was the work of the Jokester or any of his group, and I don't need any more explanation to know exactly what happened. I'm too familiar with it.

"Lying on your right side?" I ask, and he snorts.

Bitter blue-green eyes narrow, meeting mine in challenge. "Well I'm not the _perfect_ Richard Grayson," he nearly snarls. Oh, is _that_ the reason for his nasty reaction to figuring out who I am? "Won't he be _happy_ to know you're not the little golden boy he thinks you are?"

"I'll slit your throat before letting you tell him that," I say plainly. "I was Talon for over nine years, Jason, trust me, I _know_ what it's like."

"Yeah right," he snaps, standing up just a little straighter. He's still shorter than me, hasn't fully gone through the growth spurt yet, and he's got the thin build that I once had, before I started getting a decent amount of food and filled out to what I _should_ have been all along. I'm still thin, and I'm sure he'll stay thin too, but I'm not just skin and bones now. "You're _Grayson_ , I'm just the disappointing replacement that can't get anything right. Heard _that_ enough times, thanks."

"Are you?" I counter. "Or is that just what Bruce is telling you? Sounds like quite a demoralizing technique to me, measuring you up against someone who's dead. Can't fight a corpse, can you?"

He lunges at me, and I grab his attacking right arm as I jab rigid fingers into his side. He goes very pale, very quickly, dragging in a ragged gasp, and it's more than enough opening for me to pull him to the nearest wall and pin him up against it by his throat. I don't want to risk throwing him, not with his injuries and the condition this house is in. I give one warning squeeze.

"You're hurt, Jason, badly, you're exhausted, and you probably haven't had a decent meal or enough water in _days_. If you want to settle the grudge you're holding against me, for what _Bruce_ is doing to you, that's fine. But I have five years of training on you, as well as over seven years of experience to your two. I'm bigger, I'm stronger, and I'm not on the verge of collapse like you are. Your best bet is to wait until you have a decent chance, and you _know_ that, regardless of how you feel right now."

If I can't get him to recognize that Bruce is being just as manipulative as he always is, maybe I can at least get him to calm down. Waiting for a chance to strike is an easy kind of patience, and even if he doesn't _act_ particularly like it, he is my replacement. He's Talon. Bruce will have taught him how to wait.

Jason glares up at me, both arms curled around his stomach, but even past the anger I can see the calculations running through his head. "Should I file that away under 'advice from Grayson'?" he snarls, but I can see his muscles — not exactly hidden under the mostly skintight suit — relax some.

"If you want to," I offer, "but you and I both know where I got it from." I release his throat and step away, heading to the pile of weapons and tools I' took from him. I kneel beside it, though I'm careful not to turn my back on the new Talon. It's hard to say if I actually got everything he has hidden, and even if I did he's still dangerous.

"Is that it?" he asks warily, as I sort the pile out. I glance up at him, finding blue-green eyes watching me with a wary disbelief.

Another uncomfortable clench of my gut. Right. The stunt he just tried to pull would have gotten him beaten to within an inch of his life, if I was Bruce, and probably has before given what I can tell of his personality. I avoided most of Bruce's nastier punishments, but I also never had the courage — or foolhardiness — to straight out attack him. In pain, or drugged hazes, there were certainly a couple of times I snapped. But I never attacked outside of training, not ever. The punishments for involuntary behavior were bad enough.

"Yeah, that's it." I start to pocket the more useful bits of the weaponry, as his jaw clenches down. Clearly, he'd love to stop me. "I'm not Bruce, Jason." I don't expand on that, but I don't have to. He looks away, across the room, arms tightening around his midsection.

I know the pattern of injuries he's sporting. He screwed up somehow, likely thrown by Bruce considering the shoulder, and ended up lying on his right side on the floor. Bruce's boots are only slightly less dangerous than his fists, and there's not much you can do when you're already down, and he's standing over you, but cover your head and hope.

I am a little surprised that he let Jason out into the field like this, though. Even someone subjected to Bruce's training can only tolerate so much, or work with so many injuries. You'd also think that after what supposedly happened to me, Bruce might be a little more cautious over sending an injured, exhausted Talon into the streets. Apparently not.

Jason makes some kind of decision, letting out a huff of breath, and slides to the floor. His head hangs between his knees, eyes closing. "You look like him," he says defensively.

"Don't we both?" I counter, and he snorts.

"Yeah."

I finish, shoving the pile of rejected items — mostly tools that I already have a version or two of — against the wall, and turn my full attention back to him. "Answer me one question. Do you want to go back to Bruce?" His head doesn't snap up, but his eyes flick open and he turns to stare at me.

"Is there another option?" he asks, sharply.

"I'm sure they tried to talk to you before I showed up, and you heard them talking to me, didn't you? The Jokester and his group, they'd like to get you out. It's probably easier for them to think of you as someone that needs rescuing, you're not as completely trained as I was."

"And what do you mean by _that?!_ " Jason demands, voice an outraged hiss. I meet his eyes unflinchingly, and offer him Bruce's thin smile, the one that never goes higher than the minuscule twist of lips. The dangerous one. He's the one that cringes, but he also recovers almost immediately. That's not bad, considering the memories I _know_ he must have of this particular smile.

"Only that you don't act like a miniature Owlman; that's not a bad thing. Besides, I doubt the Jokester could _ever_ view me as an innocent." Like he does Jason, that is. He might have pitied me — even if no one had straight out told him, my bruises couldn't have come purely from fighting heroes and gangs — but he certainly never considered me the victim. Not like my replacement. Maybe my faked death opened his eyes to some measure of what being Talon means, but more likely the clown could simply never truly forgive me for my part in breaking him. There's no history like that with Jason, as far as I know.

"Why not? You were younger than I am."

I let the smile fall, settling into a more comfortable cross-legged position. "You know the Jokester's origin, don't you?"

He sneers. "Of _course_. He was a comedian, he started making jokes about Owlman, and Wayne made an example of him. Carved his face apart, and when the idiot didn't give in he got dumped in what was supposed to be a vat of acid. Must have been some strange chemical compound, he survived." Jason makes a face. "Sort of. It drove him insane."

"Close enough," I allow. It's Bruce's half of the events, certainly. But I know that Bruce will only have told him the facts, not the story. "He waited for months," I explain, "after he heard of the comedian making fun of Owlman. Had everything planned out by the end of a week, but he waited. To let him become famous, to let the legend of a citizen who dared to stand up against the great Owlman grow. Bruce ambushed him at one of his shows, crashed in through the window and right into the center of the crowd. He ran, and Bruce _let_ him. Cut him off at every turn, drove him straight where he wanted him to go. The factory you're thinking of."

"You were there?" Jason asks, that disbelieving note back in his voice.

"Yeah," I confirm. "I was nine, a little over a year into field work. I helped Bruce pin him against one of the catwalks, watched while he got that grin. Do you know how you actually make a Glasgow smile?" Jason shakes his head, a small jerky movement that speaks to his reluctance. "It depends on the severity, I suppose. You cut the corners of the mouth open — it doesn't take much — and then hurt the victim until the muscles contract and the flesh tears along the hinge of their jaw. I was close enough, even under the scream I could hear the sound it made; it's not like anything else. Bruce pushed it, of course, dragged Jokester's jaw open farther than it should have naturally gone.

"He only screamed for a second, I think the feeling drove him into shock. Bruce dragged him up — you've seen people in his hands, like they're not much more than ragdolls — and held him there. I don't know _what_ he thought, but you could see him change. His eyes went wide, and he started to laugh, like there was some joke that no one else understood. He wouldn't stop. Bruce was going to dump him at the doorstep of some hospital, but the laughing… He threw him into the vat and left him for dead. As far as Bruce was concerned, that was message enough. Clearly, it didn't work the way he wanted it to."

Jason is pale, mouth a tight line. "We don't have a choice," he protests. "The Jokester must know that."

"Now? Sure. But I doubt he had any clue of what being Talon means before I asked him to help get me out. Even now, I'd bet whatever he thinks—"

"Isn't nearly as bad as the truth," Jason finishes, gaze falling back to the floor. I let him stay silent, watching the fine tremors sweeping through his frame. The shaking probably isn't just pain, we're trained too well for that, in fact pain is probably one of the more minor things contributing to the involuntary reaction. The rest, some mixture of hunger, dehydration, and exhaustion, depending on what's happened over the last few days, is what's really causing them.

The door opens before he says anything, or I do, and I glance briefly up to confirm who it is before I get to my feet. "Did you need to go buy a new one?" I ask, with the tiniest edge of sarcasm, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall. I don't wait for an answer from either the Jokester — with the wooden chair held beneath one arm — or Harlequin — with several loops of rope in her grip — as I gesture briefly at the new Talon. "This is Jason, he and I have come to an understanding of sorts." Mainly, that if he tries to run I _will_ kill him before letting him escape. "He could use some breakfast, civilian clothes, and a look from whatever doctor you have looking out for you."

I'll get his answer to my question later, once he's had some time to think about it. Fear is a hard thing to overcome, and no one inspires fear quite like Bruce does. Besides, it's not like the _Jokester's_ assurance is exactly the easiest of promises to believe. I know he doesn't really want to go back to Bruce, but that doesn't mean that he won't do it anyway. I'll just have to watch him for now, until I'm sure of his thoughts in either direction.

Jason doesn't glare up at us, but his look certainly isn't anything resembling friendly. That's fine. I don't need him to trust me, or even necessarily to trust this group of clowns. Either he'll stay, let them help him, or he won't. The Jokester and his group might condemn me, but that just doesn't matter in comparison. If he's too scared of Bruce to let anyone help him run, then killing him will be a mercy.

If I can't help Jason, at least I can put him out of his misery.

* * *

"Come on, Jason. Of everyone in this house, I'm the _last_ one you should be modest around." My voice doesn't have any inflections, but he seems to take the very act of me speaking as some kind of personal offense. He glares, fingers tight around the bundle of clothes in his arms. They're probably too big for him, but I know he won't mind that. "You're also insane as the Jokester if you think I'm going to leave you alone in a room with any kind of exit. Not going to happen."

"You could at least turn around," he hisses, and I raise one eyebrow, purely for effect.

"Do you have something to hide?" I ask flatly. "I'm not them, Jason. I already know what's under the suit, been there myself, you don't need to consider my reaction as a factor. The only thing that surprises me — if you can call it that — is that Bruce sent you into the streets with the injuries you currently have. Even _he_ knows that a human body can only take so much, Talon or not."

For a few moments I'm fairly convinced that Jason is about to try and attack me — again — but it passes pretty quickly, and he dumps the pile of clothes on the corner of the small bed that's shoved against the wall. "Fine," he spits out. He strips the gloves and boots off first, the easy bits, and then, after another glare, strips the outer layer away. The pieces of body armor underneath come off separately, and he stands there defiantly for a moment before reaching for the civilian clothes.

He's black and blue, as expected. Most of it is concentrated on his left side, where the majority of his serious injuries are, but there's a good smattering of bruises over the rest of him, too. Nothing all that serious — granted I am a previous Talon, and my definition of 'serious' is rather warped — but certainly nothing that isn't causing him at least mild pain, even with our kind of tolerance for it. Bruce doesn't bother to pull punches, not even in training.

"I can put your shoulder back into its socket," I offer when he winces, pausing with his injured arm about to enter the last piece of clothing, the white long-sleeved shirt. His narrowed eyes turn to me, but he slowly, after a moment, gives a single nod. I straighten up and approach him, not commenting on the tension I can see gathering in his muscles as I get closer. I lay my right hand on his shoulder, running my palm over the area to figure out exactly what I'll need to do to put the bone back where it should be, and he drops the long-sleeved top back onto the bed. He bears my prodding with nothing more than a quiet growl, but I recognize the slow, deep breathing as the same pattern I used to use when I was hiding pain, or fear.

I brace both my hands, meeting his eyes for a moment as a warning, and give a sharp jerk. His shoulder pops back in with a mildly disturbing snapping noise, and his jaw clenches as he breathes through his teeth, a shudder traveling down his spine. I wrap one hand around his upper arm as he sags a little, recognizing the signs of his knees starting to give, and bring him up against my torso to wrap my other arm around the mostly uninjured side of his waist, purely to hold him up.

I don't offer him comfort, but I also don't say anything as his head bows against my chest, and he lets me support his weight. His breath is warm, through the thin cotton of my t-shirt, and the inhalations of it are shaky, not nearly as steady as I'm sure he'd like them to be.

"No," he says suddenly, "I don't." He looks up the half a foot of difference in our heights, and there's a dark resignation in his eyes. "But how could _they_ ever stop him?" Ah, my question.

"They protect themselves, don't they?" I ask, and his jaw clenches, but his look doesn't change.

"Why did _you_ go to all that trouble then, if you could have just asked them to harbor you?"

" _I_ couldn't," I point out, "not after what I helped Bruce do to the Jokester, or to Dent. _You_ can, you don't have the same history. If you ask, they'll protect you."

"You _know_ it's different. If I do this, he won't ever stop hunting me." In that, Jason is right. Bruce won't take betrayal lightly, not from his protege, and _especially_ not if any of this gets out to public ears. Jason will never be safe, not for the rest of his life.

"Why do you think I faked my death?" He blinks, looking vaguely surprised, but still he doesn't pull away from my grip. "I took the easy way out, Jason, I always have, but part of it was because I didn't have the same options as you do. I'll never be anything _close_ to a hero, and being Talon builds you quite the reputation. No one would have hidden me, not heroes or criminals, not if it meant going against Bruce. _You're_ not that far gone yet; as far as the heroes are concerned you can still be saved."

"That doesn't change anything," he insists, pulling away a bit. I remove the hand around his waist, now that he can stand on his own, but leave the one holding his arm. Just in case. "They don't have the resources, or the power, to stop him. Not if he _really_ wants me, and we both know he will. What he'll do to me if he catches me—"

"Isn't any worse than what he's already done. We both know _that,_ too." Anger stirs to life in Jason's eyes, but he looks away. "It won't stop," I say quietly, "there's not going to be some age, or some amount of experience, where he decides he's done with you. The pain won't end, eventually you'll lose yourself to it, and then you really will be beyond saving. Is it worth it to you to be under his heel for the rest of your life, to avoid the uncertain?"

His eyes snap back to meet my gaze, and he studies me for a second. "Is that what happened to you?" he asks sharply, and my fingers contract over his flesh before I can shut the reaction down. He catches it, I know he does, but apart from his mouth thinning into a flat line he doesn't call me out on it.

"Yes," I admit, after a few seconds, "and no. I decided that I wanted to stay alive, no matter what that meant. Becoming the weapon he wanted was the easiest way to live long enough to find a way out, so that's what I did. It wasn't a good idea, Jason, believe me." Even putting aside the fact that I will spend the rest of my life hiding from Bruce — and that's the _good_ outcome — I will never recover from what he did, and what I did to myself to endure it. As I told the Jokester, years ago, I can't be fixed.

"Why not?" Jason snaps, his muscles tensing beneath my hands. "Look at you! You're a _perfect_ killer, you're practically a machine!"

I all but shove him away from me, my eyes narrowing as real anger stirs low in my chest, rising against my ironclad control. He doesn't stumble, just sinks into half a crouch, a defensive stance. "Yes, Jason, _look_ at me." Does this idiot boy think that his time under Bruce was harder than mine, that somehow he had it worse? I was Bruce's weapon for _nine_ years, after he first got his hands on me when I was barely six. Bruce had no time for the tolerance of a child, for the things I wasn't physically capable of doing. If anything, _I_ had it worse.

I clench a hand at the hem of my dark blue shirt, dragging it upwards to my armpit and giving Jason a slanted look at the right half of my torso. "Is _this_ what you want to be?" I demand, not having to look down to know the patterns of thick scar that cover most of my chest. Bruce prefers to use implements that won't tear flesh, at least in training, and Jason will know that, but that only means the map of scar tissue is a _tiny_ fraction of what was done to me. " _Think_ , Jason, think about what you've already given up, and how much _more_ you'll lose before you become what I am. I'm not a person, I'm a _weapon_. Is _that_ what you want to be?"

"Isn't it better than being _this_?" he asks, and only the tiny fluctuation in his voice stops me from throwing him through one of the walls. I almost miss it, and then I almost dismiss it as his voice cracking, until I catch the smallest hint of fear in his eyes. I let my shirt drop, taking a breath to push the anger away, and then another to shut it down completely.

"There are other ways of being strong, Jason," I offer quietly. "It doesn't have to be at Bruce's fists, you don't have to become something else to get there." He warily straightens up as well, though his shoulders stay drawn inwards a bit, likely in pain.

"And who's going to do that?" he asks, almost bitterly. "The _Jokester?_ Yeah right." He steps back, sitting down on the corner of the bed. " _I've_ got more combat skill than that clown, and he's probably the best out of all of them."

Sadly, that's true. The Jokester and his gang have survived off of being underhanded, clever, and a very tightly knit group, not because they're any good at combat. They know better than to go up against Bruce one on one, or even two on one. He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day. Their whole motto.

Jason runs his right hand through his hair, combing it back along his skull, eyes staring down at the floor. Well, at least he's started talking like he _is_ going to leave the role of Talon, even if he's being really pessimistic about it. Alright, pessimistic is unfair. He's being _realistic_ about his chances in all of this, they just happen to be very grim. Still, better than him thinking everything is going to be sunshine and roses. Life doesn't work like that, especially not for people like us.

"There are heroes who could teach you, ones more combat oriented."

He only snorts. "Yeah right. He's a bastard, but he's the best. Don't _even_ try and tell me anything else." He's nearly right. I'm not a match for Bruce, and he taught me nearly everything he knew. I'm sure there are secrets he held back, things that he kept to make sure I wasn't as good as him, but part of it is also just that he has more experience than I do. There _are_ a handful of heroes I know that are on Bruce's level, but they're few and far between. It's entirely possible that Jason has never met them.

"You've got some time to decide," I say, instead of trying to combat his point. Pick your battles, after all. "It's not like the Jokester's going to throw you out."

"And you?" he asks, looking up at me. I don't think he really has any expectations, and if he does then he shouldn't, but who am I to deny him the steady ground he's looking for?

"You know my stance on it," I remind him. "All they can do is show you the door, Jason, _you_ have to choose to walk through it. Come on, the clowns probably can't wait to feed you, we've kept them waiting long enough." He looks at me, and then glances briefly down at his legs with an uncertain expression. I wait until he looks back up, jaw tight, to offer him my hand. I'm not going to make him ask. He reaches up, and I pull him to his feet once we clasp each other's forearms.

He's a bit shaky, but at least he stays standing. He holds onto me for a moment, steadying himself, before letting me go. I slide my hand down his arm as I do the same, and feel something _strange_ under my fingers. A rectangular bump on the underside of his arm, near his elbow. I immediately reinstate my grip, dragging him a step closer, and flip his arm to see the spot my fingers discovered.

"Hey!" he protests, but I ignore him. It's not big, maybe half an inch long, and thin, but it's not anywhere there should be a bone. Not even with the damage he's undoubtedly taken. But that means…

I grab the small knife hooked into the hidden pocket over my left hip, flicking it open and taking it to his skin. His shout is shock, not pain, but I don't let the jerk of his arm pull it away from me. I only do enough damage to pull the thing out of him, then I drop his arm in favor of storing the knife and examining what I've recovered.

"What the _hell_ is that?" Jason demands, as I wipe the blood off it. It's a small piece of combined metal and plastic, and when I flip it over — to the part that would have been face down into his arm — there's a blinking white light, and a faint imprint of Owlman's symbol.

Oh, of _course_. How could I have not considered that? Of _course_ a simple tracker imbedded in the suit wouldn't be enough, not after the way I supposedly died. Back up measures, _always_ have a plan.

I raise my fingers to my lips and give the most piercing whistle I can manage. The house isn't that big, that _should_ get the attention of everyone in it. "Put your shirt on," I order Jason, and then turn, striding across the room to throw my backpack over my shoulders. Jason obeys without his seemingly ever-present anger, shrugging into the white top. Blood stains his arm, but it's a minor cut and nothing I can stop to fix right now. Not enough time, it's a _miracle_ we haven't been ambushed already. Or it's a plan. _Damn_.

"Grayson?" Jason demands, blue-green eyes trained down, at my hand.

"A setup," I hiss, tossing him the tracker. "No _wonder_ you got sent out with those kinds of injuries. Bruce _knew_ the Jokester would grab you if he got the chance."

The window shatters inwards, and a large figure comes crashing through. I spin, focusing my gaze on the crouching man, on the dark grey and black suit and large white eyes. He straightens up slowly, as I sink halfway into a crouch, sliding my feet apart to give the best balance and dropping the backpack from my arms to shed the extra weight, and he takes a single glance at Jason before focusing fully on me.

If I had room to step back I would. Unfortunately, the wall is at my back, and the door opens inwards. Until the others come running, the only good way in or out is the two windows _behind_ Bruce. And even then, only the one he's already broken, unless I want to slice my arms apart.

"Bruce," I say shortly. "You're late, if that wasn't time activated."

His lips curl, into the very same smile I used on Jason earlier, and a chill runs down my spine. "I was curious who this pathetic group of heroes was calling in for backup. I admit, I wasn't expecting to see _you_ again, Talon, given your status as a corpse. Not even enough left to put in a coffin, I had to bury an empty box. Is that the way you planned it?"

"Naturally," I answer, watching him carefully as I study the room from my peripheral vision. There's not much space, even less with Bruce in the room, and there's maybe a foot and a half of air to his right that he won't be able to reach with the length of his arm and a single step. It's right where Jason has flattened himself back against the wall. That's the _only_ way I can possibly get past him if I move first, and not only are the chances not good, but I'm sure he _also_ knows that. Even with my skills, that brings it down to pretty much impossible.

On the plus side, if he wants me, he has to make the first move. It shouldn't be more than a minute before the Jokester, Harlequin, and whoever else is in this house come bursting through the door. Unless he's got other villains helping him, but Bruce has never been a real social person, and this is something he'll want kept private. If it gets out that I betrayed him, actually _fooled_ him, he'll never be able to crack enough skulls to make that rumor go away.

His left hand snaps to his belt, and I move. Instead of going the obvious way, over Jason's head and through the space that is not nearly big enough for me, I only feint to that side. I spin, digging my heel into the wood floor, and launch myself off it and to the wall, spinning across it to go over his left shoulder. For one breathtaking moment, as his head turns to follow me, I think I've actually managed to do it. Then one gauntleted hand wraps around my ankle, and he brings me down hard to the floor. I feel the glass from the window dig into my back, but can't spare the time to worry about how bad it is. I kick out, forcing him to block, and roll backwards.

I'm out the window a moment later, into a slightly bigger alley that's brightly lit by the sun. I don't bother running far — even if Bruce _hasn't_ got his plane or car stored nearby, with that suit he could run me down on my best day — but just enough to give me some space to work with, before I turn to face him. Bruce is bigger and physically stronger than I am, and he's in a protective costume. I might have weapons hidden all over me, but not all of them will do anything against his suit, and most will just be annoyances.

He doesn't give me the time to plan, coming at me low, and I duck one booted kick before chucking a few of my less useful knives at him. They're aimed at his head, and that's probably the only reason he bothers batting them out of the air. I flip backwards, regaining my space, and throw a few more. Those ones he dodges, running at me, and I fall back in a controlled roll as his clawed right hand swipes at my throat.

So, he's not planning to take me alive. Or at least, doesn't care if I wind up dead.

I pull one of the tazers from one of my many pockets as I roll, shooting it at him the second I have a clear shot. The electricity won't do anything, Bruce makes his suits better than that, but it will give me a second of distraction. I leap aside, as he yanks the bolts from where they've stuck, and his followup kick misses my arm by about half an inch as I propel back off the side of the house and behind him. Cat and mouse at its most dangerous; if he catches me I'll go down in _seconds_.

I swing a kick at the back of his knee, which he pulls away from, and take the opportunity to fill my hands with various items from my pockets. As I duck away from the snap kick aimed at my head, I catalog exactly what I've grabbed. The two knives I immediately throw, one from each hand, and I follow them up with several of my exploding capsules. The knives bounce off his armor, and as the multicolored gases — I'm not totally sure what they all are, but _anything_ will help — envelop his head I retreat back, getting out of the position at his feet that my rolls took me. Long ranged game, don't let him get close.

He steps out of it, mouth back in that thin smile. I'm not posing any real kind of threat, but that's fine. I just need to stall, wait for the others to get themselves together, I don't need to beat him. I don't stand a _chance_ anyway, not in civilian clothes and without some decent weapons. Jason had a good store, but there's nothing in the basic arsenal of Talon that could be used against a suit like Bruce's.

His hands go to his belt, and I only get that single moment of warning before there are five separate owlarangs headed at me, the bladed metal whizzing through the air. I knock one out of the air with my own — which leaves me a single-shot tazer, and two more capsules in my hands — and then have to flip backwards to avoid the rest. Bruce is coming at me when I get back to my feet, and I empty my hands to give myself time to dodge aside and bounce off the wall of the apartment building opposite the house.

It doesn't work as well this time. He turns with me, a wave of his cape dispersing the gas, and is on me the second I land. One fist lashes out, and I raise both arms to cross in front of myself and block. It throws me backwards, against the gritty dirt floor of the alley, and the front arm, my left one, goes numb up to my elbow.

Okay, I was _not_ expecting that. Sure, Bruce's suit might have the built in capability to mimic super strength, but he _never_ uses it against normal opponents. It's not honor, he's just never seemed to feel the need when a normal strike will work just as well.

I ignore the stinging pain from my back — whatever shards of glass are buried in it — and manage to rise to a crouch before his foot comes at my side. I fall backwards, the only way to dodge it, and the second one from his other foot, as he turns, catches me as I try to recover. I block with my right arm, I have to, but the impact is still enough to smash me back against the brick wall of the apartment building, and it feels like he's broken my arm. He hasn't, I know the crack of bone well enough to know when it's absent, but that and the impact are enough to steal my breath for a moment.

He grabs the front of my shirt, dragging me up the wall as I dig into another pocket for something, _anything_ , and pulls me forward a few inches to slam me back against it a second time. I don't offer him the satisfaction of noise, or any real reaction, but I also don't really have the breath to do either anyway. I kick out at him at the same time as I raise my arm, pressing down the button on the capsule I took from my pocket. One of the spraying ones, not exploding, those would have hurt me more than him.

Not only does my kick impacting with his hip only move him about an inch, but as the gas — a light blue, not a color I recognize — sprays out, a clear shield clicks into place over his mouth. Well, damn. That's new. He gives me a smirk from behind the protective plastic. His free right hand slams into my stomach, and with the added strength of the suit it's more than enough to double me over, spittle flying from my mouth as a sharp sound of pain is forced from me along with my air.

The next thing I know there's gas spraying into my open mouth, and the reflexively startled gasp I take is a terrible mistake. Bruce lets me drop to the alley floor, standing over me, and I take a moment to pray that whatever he just dosed me with, it isn't lethal. My lungs burn and I choke, seizing in the dirt. Chemicals don't usually mean much to me, I've had too many accidental — and _very_ intentional — experiences with them, but whatever this is, it's strong, concentrated.

I get enough control of myself to look up, my shoulders and chest jerking in involuntary spasms, and while the eyes of the Owlman's mask are as blank as always, his mouth is still in that tiny smirk. He raises one foot, and my muscles don't work nearly fast enough to get me out of the way in time. It comes down on my right calf, and the very distinctive snap of bone reaches my ears as I cry out in pain. The sound dies almost immediately on another spasm, but Bruce's lips curl into a vicious smile.

"Let's see you run from me now, Talon," he says, sinking down to kneel beside me. One hand curls into my hair, pulling my head from the ground, and his other fist slams into the side of my face. I feel something break, and my world starts to get fuzzy. I don't know if that's the injuries — or more accurately, the blow to the head — or if it's an effect of the gas, but either way I hover on the edge of unconsciousness. I fight it, keeping myself awake, as Bruce unceremoniously drops my head to the ground.

There are shouts, and I dimly realize that finally, my backup has arrived. My eyes aren't much use, not when lifting my head spikes both pain and nausea, but I raise my gaze enough to see them force Bruce back down the alley. The Jokester, Harlequin, Enigma, the monstrous form of Croc, and a tall man that at this angle, I'm only fairly certain is Dent. Bruce has never enjoyed fighting groups of actual heroes, the ones that know how to work as a team, and it shows true here as well. He turns and leaves within a few moments, a grapnel taking him up the side of the building and beyond their immediate reach.

The Jokester shouts something that ends in a laugh at Bruce's retreating form, and the heroes turn back in my direction. They're in a hurry, running or jogging, but the Jokester stops in front of me, unlike the rest. He stares down at me, and I raise my gaze to meet his. His green eyes are narrowed, and I can see the uncertainty in them. I almost feel like laughing.

I don't think I can speak, and even if I can I don't have the concentration to, past the seizing shudders, but the thoughts run through my head anyway. _'Do it, clown, leave me here. I'm not your ally, or even your friend, I'm barely anything less than an enemy. You already have one Talon to save, why worry about another? I'm not any use to you, so just do it, leave me to Bruce's mercy. Leave behind all that hero nonsense, you don't have to save the villain.'_

My eyes shutter closed, the strength to keep them open too much for the moment, and I focus my attention on dragging air through my burning throat, into my screaming lungs. It doesn't work very well, but I get enough to keep myself alive. Just like every other aspect of my life. Just enough to stay alive.

Consciousness abandons me, the blackness finally overcoming my senses, but at least the pain leaves with it.

* * *

For the second time — when it comes to falling unconscious with the Jokester in front of me — I'm surprised to wake.

The pain hits me first, my breath catches at the intensity, and I cough my way into moderate awareness. A hand comes down on my shoulder, as I struggle to get breath through the agony that is my throat, and I steady myself through the solid touch, finally managing to ease into something resembling a normal breathing pattern. I pry my eyes open, and find a green gaze looking down at me.

"This is familiar," I manage, my voice a rasping mess, and the Jokester's hand tightens for a brief moment.

"You got bigger," he retorts, with a real grin. "Hey," he calls, looking up and past me, "our little killing machine is awake!" I wince at the volume, but don't bother asking the clown to tone it down. Like he'd listen.

Just one other face comes into view, the blue-green eyes and still faintly child-soft face of Jason, and he stares down at me. Maybe he's hiding it, maybe he's not, but I can see the spark of relief in his eyes either way. "You idiot," he starts sharply, "why'd you breathe in?!" His shout is even louder than the Jokester's, and I can't smother the second wince. "That stuff is nasty enough when it's just on your skin, and _you_ had to go and inhale it."

"Jason," comes a third voice, and Harlequin peers over the younger Talon's shoulder, "don't yell at the patient. Head injury, remember?"

I burst into a second round of coughing, and a small hand presses down on my other shoulder, opposite the Jokester's. It, more than the clown's, holds me to the surface of whatever I'm lying on as my shoulders spasm up and inwards. "Stupid bastard," I hear Jason snarl, my eyes automatically closing as I slowly reestablish my painful breathing. It takes longer than the first time, but I manage it. Jason's hand eases up — but doesn't leave completely — once I recover, and he sits down beside me on the edge of the flat surface I'm lying on.

He's still in the civilian clothes we originally found for him — the bloodstain from finding the tracker included — so it can't have been too long, but they're also acting a bit like it's a relief I woke up at all. Considering the agony of my throat and lungs, I'd guess that's not too far off the mark.

Oh, _hey_ , Jason is here. That must mean that, at least, he's still under their guard. "Make a, decision? That, door?" I rasp out, meeting his gaze, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. He looks up at the Jokester, and I glance over to find him watching Jason with interest. No official answer yet, then.

"Yes," Jason grudgingly admits, and rolls his eyes at the Jokester's immediately widening grin. "I'll stay," he looks down at me, "if _you_ do." That's… not something I was expecting.

"Me?"

He snorts. "Like any of these clowns could teach me anything I don't already know," he says with a measure of disdain, and the Jokester gives a laugh that's quiet compared to his normal ones, not sounding in the least offended. "If you stay _and_ teach me, I'll stick around." I may be in pain, and fairly foggy, but I still recognize an empty bluff when I hear one. Jason didn't escape when Bruce gave him the chance; if he goes back now things will be worse than they ever have been. He'll have to stay with the Jokester; he's got nowhere else to go. Then again, neither do I now.

My cover is blown all to hell, it's only a matter of time before my face winds up on Bruce's scanners, if it isn't already. He'll keep it between us, but if he finds me — and I don't have the confidence in my own skill to think he won't, considering what just happened — I'm in for a slow, painful death. If I'm lucky.

"You miss, the fight?" I ask haltingly, clenching my teeth for a moment to force myself to speak through the pain, and _that_ reminds me of the last punch and whatever bone in my face is broken.

"You mean the fight where you held your own, with no good weapons, and no suit, for almost two minutes, in a bad arena, with no help? After being inactive for four years?" Well, when you put it like _that_ , I guess it is something that almost sounds impressive. "No, I caught the whole thing. It _was_ kind of satisfying to see _perfect Grayson_ get taken down."

"Empty bluff," I say, calling him out on his demand. I wasn't going to, but after that comment? "You don't have anywhere—" I stop for a cough, fighting back the rest before finishing, "Anywhere else to go, Jason." His mouth tightens into that same thin line, and I let him sit there for a second before raising my hand to lightly touch his back. "I don't either," I admit to him. "I'll teach you." At the least I can give my younger version the same skills that I have, without turning him into the cold weapon that I am.

He relaxes, hand clenching down on my shoulder for a moment in what I would guess is appreciation. It doesn't hurt, so I don't mind. "Trained by perfect Grayson, this oughtta be fun. I can learn to get my ass kicked slightly _less_." Oh, the little…

"Not, perfect," I protest with a ragged breath. "Would love to _strangle_ you."

His lips twist in a small grin, and despite my words — admittedly, an equally empty threat — he doesn't leave his seat beside me. "Maybe when you can actually breathe, _Dick_."

"Richard," I correct, and he shrugs.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Dick."

The Jokester bursts out laughing beside us, joined by the slightly more restrained guffaws from Harlequin on the other side, and they're both far too amused to even notice my glance of narrowed, accusatory eyes. Whatever. At least Jason is comfortable enough, feels _safe_ enough, to mock me. Given his background, given what I know Bruce would do to him for impertinence even _half_ as forward, that's probably a good sign.

Maybe I can still fix the kid after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go! Chapter 2! The two of them are now together, and you've met Jason. I blame Jason for all the rest of this story, by the way. This was a perfectly normal oneshot, and then Jason kicked the door down and demanded that I tell his part of this story too, and now I have eighteen chapters and I'm not done yet. All Jason's fault.
> 
> So, ideally, I'll be putting up the second chapter of 'The Minutes Till My Heartbeat Stops' next week, assuming I finish it. I should be able to, it's a pretty easy scene (I think). Then chapter three should be the week after that, because that piece I actually wrote beforehand. The flu, man. I just wrote whatever happened to go through my head. I've also got two chapters of a Jason Todd and Terry McGinnis crossover (pro hint, Jason is unamused by Terry's inability to dodge), and there's another story that blindsided me just yesterday. Anybody remember that Flashpoint cameo where Jason Todd was a well adjusted priest in Gotham instead of, well, Red Hood?
> 
> Well, I'm writing a crossover mashup of Flashpoint featuring Father Todd/Officer Grayson. You're welcome. Please enjoy that mental picture.


	3. Beneath the Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is totally the post from yesterday. Huussshhh, I totally put it up before I passed out. XD So, I know you guys have been waiting a while for the third chapter of this, so here it is. This is the first one from Jason's PoV. and I will mention now that what Jason thinks isn't necessarily the truth, but it's what _he_ believes. Unreliable narrator, everybody.
> 
>  **Warnings** for this chapter are : mentioned/referenced child abuse, tortures both mental and physical, and the general unpleasantness of being Talon in this universe.

I stare down at the mask in my hands. It's not really _mine_ anymore, hasn't been for months, but there's some screwed up part of me that can't let it go.

It's black, with sharp, sweeping edges and white films over the eyes, and it secures to my skin with adhesive, enough of the substance to keep it there unless deliberately ripped off. Or, it did. I don't _ever_ want to wear it again. It's not like a piece of material this small really does anything to hide my face anyway; that's total bullshit. Hiding the eyes might be enough if the person looking happens to be kinda slow, _maybe_ , but 'big and dumb' isn't a type we get in Gotham that much. Those heroes usually team up with the ones that _aren't_ , since my bastard kidnapper is a bit of a legend. Even the not-so-bright metahumans of the world usually know better than to think that they can take the Owl down with just fists. Better heroes have tried; a lot. Some of them are even still alive.

The mask isn’t like the Owl's helmet (that's _way_ more useful than the domino, and covers everything but his mouth and jaw; selfish _bastard_ ), or the full-face makeup that Harlequin uses; at least it's a little better than Enigma's dark sunglasses, or Ultraman's total lack of a mask. How that monster keeps up a secret identity I don't even know, Metropolis must be full of idiots. Maybe it's just the paranoid Gothamite in me, but I can't honestly think that I wouldn't have recognized Clark Kent as Ultraman if I saw him walking down the street.  
  
It was the suit that made me Talon, I guess, not the mask. Mine might be stylized, but a domino mask is sort of a free-for-all among the super-'insert proper ending here' community. Reinforced black and red tights, and a matching cape, are pretty much unique to the name Talon. I mean, Red Arrow's in red and black, and so is his sidekick Arsenal, but archers and capes don't go together real well; need for quivers and all that. Harlequin doesn't count either; she's got white in there. I guess the real purpose of the mask was just to take me one step away from looking like a dressed-up kid. Knowing someone's face or name lets you think of them as human, Talon's not _supposed_ to be human.

It's not like it would have mattered if my mask came off, anyway. There are only maybe a couple dozen people that actually know my face. I was part of Crime Alley, so I was barely even considered part of Gotham's citizens according to anyone not in there _with_ me. I'm pretty sure I had a birth certificate, _somewhere_ , but hell if I know where it ended up. Apart from that, Jason Todd didn't even count as a person. Cops in Crime Alley beat you up if you were _stupid_ enough to get caught, they didn't take you into jail or actually write you up for anything. Gotham just wanted the damn neighborhood to disappear, along with all the gutter trash in it. I guess that made it easy for the Owl. Not much to erase when your victim barely existed in the first place, right?

Not that I'm a fucking _victim_. Not _ever_. Yeah, he took a chunk out of my sanity, but not even Crime Alley made a victim out of me, I'm not giving it to _him_ either. No way.  
  
My shoulders twitch in a shiver that I fight away, and I close my eyes for a second, _tightly_.

Sometimes I still can't _believe_ that I'm actually free. I betrayed the most dangerous villain in the world (that's not an argued fact in Gotham; it _knows_ Owlman has the title, and as far as it's concerned the rest of the world's opinions can go fuck themselves) and I got away with it. Well, so far. I'm not holding out great hopes for the outcome of the Circus vs the Owl, but I guess they could surprise me. They're not dead _yet_ , that's something, and I _do_ have at least one thing in my favor.

Richard Grayson: the first Talon, and the guy who faked his own death and made the _Owl_ fall for it, which is something I didn't think was at _all_ possible. I saw the broadcast, I was _sure_ that he'd died at the Jokester's hands. Seeing him alive turned my whole fucking world upside down. All that time I'd _hated_ the idea of the first Talon; _perfect Grayson_ who seemed like the ultimate, _perfect_ sidekick. But he'd planned for _years_ to escape Bruce, and even pulled it off. That makes him pretty damn good, but it definitely doesn't make him the loyal Talon that I'd pictured in my head. I wondered how anyone could be as loyal to the bastard Owl as he seemed to be; I guess now I know.

Aside from that, Grayson's every bit as good as I thought he was. He got his ass kicked by our mutual kidnapper, but that's not surprising. No one beats the Owl one on one, they just _don't,_ so watching Grayson keep him at bay was _damn_ impressive. Barely two minutes, but the fact that he didn't get pummeled into the ground in seconds is seriously badass. Especially since the Owl had so many advantages. His suit, the confined battlefield, Grayson's lack of any weapons that could have hurt the bastard... It'd be a hell of a thing to see a fight between them when they're on a level playing field. I don't think Grayson would win, but I don't think the Owl would come out clean either.

Grayson's maybe the second most dangerous person I know, the first being fucking obvious. Well, maybe not that I _know of_ , but at least that I've actually talked to. He _is_ probably the only damn person in the _world_ who's got any idea of the fucked up things the Owl put me through. Besides the bastard himself. I spent four years being compared to his memory, and oh I wanted to be able to strangle him _so_ badly. While the Owl had me, and I thought the first Talon was dead, it felt like Grayson had everything that I wanted. He was art in motion, _perfect_ , and _deadly_ , and I never saw the Owl break _his_ arm for fucking up. Then I met him.

He's not so bad. He might be an emotionally crippled killing machine, but still, he's decent enough. It's actually kind of a scary thought that _I_ probably would've ended up the same way if the Owl had gotten more time. Now I know that Grayson had it just as bad as I did, if not worse; he just dealt with it a different way. He shut down, I didn't; that's the only difference between us. He was Talon for nine _years,_ and I can't even _imagine_ enduring that much more time under the Owl's heel. I balanced on a knife's edge every day for my _four_ years; I don't think I could have done it much longer.  
  
"You're going to have to give it up, you know that?"  
  
I flinch, jerking my head up.

Grayson's standing across the room from me, just inside the door, and I've got absolutely no _idea_ how long he's been there. I've also got absolutely _no_ clue how he got there without me noticing him coming in. I was distracted sure, lost in my own thoughts, but I was _Talon_. I'm _damn_ good at tracking people, but Grayson is _silent._ He's the only person that I've ever had trouble keeping track of apart from the Owl, which I guess makes sense.

I resist the childish urge to try and hide the mask away. Grayson's already seen it, he's _commenting_ on it, and honestly he probably knew that I kept it within a few days of us coming here. The underground safe 'house' of the Jokester's group — one of Croc's lairs — doesn't have many actual rooms, so Grayson and I have been sharing one. It's mostly a maze of corridors, part of one of the _many_ abandoned _whatever_ -systems. Seriously, it's a miracle that Gotham hasn't collapsed on itself, considering all the tunnels under it.  
  
I don't answer, and Grayson crosses the room. There's the slightest hitch to his movement, a tiny flinch of his right hip every time he steps down, that fucks with his stride just a little bit. If I wasn't trained to see (and then take advantage of) things like that, I probably wouldn't have ever noticed it at all. No, that's a fucking lie. If I didn't _know_ he'd been hurt, I probably would have missed it completely, even with all the shit the Owl drilled into my head. He's still recovering from his broken leg, but even _with_ that little flinch he moves like something _way_ beyond a normal human. His posture is perfect, and every step is like he's one shift of weight away from leaping into an acrobatics display, or some kind of dance. It's _stunning_ to watch. I don't move that way; I don't think I ever will.

I hate even _thinking_ it, but Grayson's more suited to the name of Talon than I ever was.  
  
I know it's fucked up that I even _wanted_ to be worthy of a title that blood-soaked, but once I had the name I couldn't help just wanting it to _fit_. It was Grayson's name, and nothing I did was ever _good_ enough for it. I hate the fact that for _years_ I craved a moment where the Owl would show even the _tiniest_ hint of approval. I _hate_ that in my weaker moments I would have killed a dozen people in cold blood for just one satisfied nod, or one touch that didn't bring or promise pain.

It scares me to think that if he _had_ done that, I know I could have molded myself to be loyal to him. I could have been _proud_ to kill for him; could have _enjoyed it_.

What the fuck is wrong with me, that I can even _contemplate_ that?  
  
Grayson sits down beside me, on my bed, and I watch his leg stretch out with a very faint tremble. Harlequin glares every time she sees him walking on it, but that hasn't stopped him any more than the pain I know he must be in. We're not really _human_ in the way she thinks of the word. A broken leg might take one of them down for _months_ , but we're too used to that kind of pain to let it stop us for long. The Owl never liked having me down any more than absolutely necessary, and what the hell did lasting damage mean when he could just call in favors to get me fixed again? Harley doesn't understand that, probably _never_ will, and I can't imagine that she could ever really _get_ us either. I'm a decent example for our kind of pain tolerance, but Grayson can probably take more than I can. He's had a lot more practice at it.  
  
He was only six when the Owl picked him up, but I know that Grayson being a kid — even by Gotham standards — didn't protect him. The scars tell enough of a story. The Owl doesn't even _like_ using bladed weapons in training — blood makes the practice area slippery — but I'd still bet that maybe only a _tenth_ of the scars covering Grayson were from anything but our glorified abuser. The Owl's a sick bastard; I know for a fact he wouldn't hesitate to torture a child. I've seen him do it... _I've_ done it.  
  
I shudder at the thought, my throat locking shut like the Owl's hand is _still_ clenched down on it, and Grayson's shoulder brushes against mine. I wait for the words; the _inevitable_ attempt at some kind of comfort to a fucked up kid, but they don't come. He leans the tiniest bit of weight into the contact, nothing more than what a normal person might expect from someone sitting close enough to accidently touch, and stays silent.

Something in me eases, and the phantom pressure on my neck vanishes.

That's right. Grayson might not know what's going on in my head (even if he _is_ a damn mind reader at times), but he has to know the kind of things the Owl demanded of me; he _has_ to.

The shoulder against mine steadies me in a way that none of Harlequin or the Jokester's hugs, or beaming smiles, ever will. I can't remember a time I ever really knew comfort, not the cheery 'we're all a happy family' way they think of it, anyway. Touch has pretty much always been a thing to avoid as far as I was concerned. First it was the fists of my dad, then the cops, and then the _fucking_ Owl, so while it might seem like a friendly, commonly accepted thing to them, it freaks me the hell out. I have to hold back the urge to punch the Jokester in the gut every time he throws an arm around me. Every instinct I have is _damn_ sure that he's about to put me in a chokehold, or hold my arms down to my sides for something nastier, and they're equally sure that I should escape as quickly and viciously as possible. The slight pressure of Grayson's shoulder is easier.

It's just a tiny reminder that he's there; that he _knows_ how screwed up I am and he's _still here_. (Is that what all comfort is at the core, or is that just how _I_ think of it?)  
  
None of the Jokester's group treat Grayson the way they do me, but given his pretty nasty history with — at least — the Jokester and Dent, that's probably asking more than they can give. Sure, they greet me with grins (not that the Jokester really has a _choice_ about grinning), but they still slip around Grayson like he's some kind of monster. Like he's going to turn and just slaughter them all at any moment. I mean, I bet he _could,_ but clearly they're missing the fact that he doesn't have any _reason_ to. He's hiding from the Owl just like I am, and having more bodies between him and our hunter is just basic sense. Why don't they get that?

Grayson doesn't seem to mind their caution, and I really wish they treated me the same way they treat him. It'd be so much _easier_ if they just figured out I'm not worth them trying to fix me. Grayson's more dangerous than me, yeah, but if they think that _he's_ a monster then if they knew what I've done I'd get run out the damn door.

A six year old kid doesn't have a choice, and it's a fucking miracle that Grayson isn't just as loyally broken and brainwashed as he pretended to be, but I was older, and I'm a Gotham kid. I _chose_ to be what the Owl wanted to protect myself, and if these damn heroes just _thought_ about it they'd see that that makes me so much worse than my predecessor. It's so damn _obvious_ , why don't they know it? How can they see Grayson, see how _not like him_ I am, and not realize that the Owl only let me out this intact because he knew I'd obey him? I'm _so_ much more guilty than Grayson is.

I risk looking up at him, and his gaze turns to meet me. It's flat, but after a moment he flicks his eyes down towards the mask still in my hands and raises one eyebrow in a question.  
  
"I'm not going to wear it,” I say quickly, automatically defensive without really thinking about it. “It's just—” I cut off, tearing my gaze away from Grayson as my mind stops short. I _know_ what the mask is to me, but explaining that to someone else, even someone like Grayson? That's harder.

It isn't just a thing to me. It's part of who I changed myself into, part of who I _am_ , and the reminder is harder to get rid of than I thought it'd be. I should be able to throw the damn thing away, I should _want_ to, since it reminds me of all the fucked up things I've done or endured, but I just _can't_. On my weaker days I used it to split the idea of Talon and Jason into two separate people, so I could hide behind the shield of a name that didn't quite belong to me. I could pretend that everything I was doing, or that was done _to_ me, was just someone else. A story about perfect Grayson, maybe. When that mask was on it was someone else, but when it came off it was just me again, and everything else could be left behind. That was just the early days, before I numbed to the sight of blood and the sound of screaming. I _became_ the mask, and without it I didn't matter anymore. Jason was the weaker half; Talon was a force to be reckoned with.

Grayson yanked me out of that state when we met — literally ripped the mask off my face — and forced me to go up against him as the person instead of the title.  
  
"Without that mask," Grayson starts quietly, and I look back up at him, "the face in the mirror is a stranger. Right?" His voice has a little bit of a rasp to it, the only thing apart from his leg that's proof of his defeat. His lungs haven't completely healed from the chemical he got sprayed with — and then inhaled, like a fucking moron — but apart from occasional coughing, and that persistent rasp to his voice, you'd never know the fight ever happened. It's barely even noticeable if you hadn't heard him speak before it happened.

It was a _lot_ worse, but the couple of months since then have healed pretty much everything. He should be fine, even if that last little hint never goes away.  
  
"Yeah," I answer reluctantly, lowering my gaze to the mask. "This is more _me_ than my own reflection. It's screwed up, yeah?"  
  
Harlequin would snap at me — like she _actually_ thinks she scares me — if I said anything remotely like that in front of her, but Grayson doesn't even really react. Harlequin's noble quest to 'fix' me is mostly just a lot of what _she_ thinks are subtle psychiatrist techniques, which I just shrug off. Apparently she hasn't made the connection that the Owl isn't just a brute, he's _smart_. The physical punishments were just a way of lowering my defenses to drive things into my subconscious; I'm no stranger to mind games.

I did a lot of research on conditioning, in the bits of time the Owl was gone and I had free rein of his cave. I'm sure that he knew I was looking, but he never brought it up. I guess he figured that it didn't matter if I knew what he was doing, it's not like I was going to stop him.

"You didn't have anything outside of being Talon, did you?" Grayson asks, and I straighten a bit, meeting his gaze. What the hell does he mean by that? Of _course_ I didn't. His blue eyes hold mine steadily, and he speaks like he's reading my mind. "I mean, 'Jason' vanished, didn't he? Once Bruce found you."  
  
Oh, I get it.

"No, _Dick_ , I didn't get the whole adoption gig that you did." I wasn't anything but Talon to the Owl, and Jason might be my name, but it doesn't mean a damn thing. It was one more reason I had to hate Grayson, one more thing _he_ got and I didn't. He got to keep his name and his face, got to be Gotham's golden Richard Grayson. The adopted son of Bruce Wayne, the sole heir to Wayne Enterprises, and next in line to true control of everything Gotham related. A perfect little clone of his 'father,’ despite the fact they shared no actual blood. Taken in after the terrible _accident_ that befell his family. Accident my ass. If the Owl didn't kill them himself, he made _sure_ they died.

I didn't even get that much. 'Jason Todd' stopped being a real person the second the Owl closed his hand around my throat and dragged me off the streets. I don't know if it was just too soon after the 'accidental' death of Richard Grayson for him to publicly adopt another child, or if a Gotham street rat wouldn't have flown as well as a news-famous child acrobat, or even if one Talon dying at the same time as Bruce Wayne's son was risk enough, and he didn't want to chance it with two.

I wonder what kind of fucked up reason the Owl has for both of us being black-haired, blue-eyed kids? That's not a coincidence. Does he just prefer the look, or does the bastard actually think of us as his mini-clones or something?  
  
"Trust me," Grayson says, "that's a good thing." There's no change in his voice or expression, but that doesn't mean a damn thing. He _does_ feel, I know it, but it doesn't ever show. He's totally shut down, and I almost envy that sometimes. If I had any _clue_ how he so effectively shut himself off, or if I knew how to do it to myself, I probably would have. The Owl's training might have been easier to handle if I could just shut off my ability to feel. Emotions definitely made me a bigger target for him.  
  
"Not fun being in the spotlight?" I ask, unable to help the edge of bitterness, and his head dips an inch or so.  
  
"Those hours where Bruce would go to Wayne Enterprises, for meetings and such?" I nod, confirming that I know what he's talking about. "As his son, I went with him."  
  
I wince, and his mouth curls up at one side in a small smirk, his gaze lifting to glance briefly across the room. I'm sure it's an expression that's for my benefit, not because he's suddenly felt something deep enough to actually show it. Apart from pain, I've seen him feel something strong enough to do _that_ all of one time. It was anger, in the _stupid,_ defensive moment where I called him a perfect killer and _demanded_ to know why I wouldn't want to be him. For just a second I was really afraid of him, in the same way I am of the Owl. Granted, that anger was actually aimed _at_ me, and at the time I was beat all to hell and he wasn't. He could have killed me any time he wanted to, the heroes in the other room wouldn't have stood a chance of stopping him. They probably wouldn't even have noticed until he was long gone; we know how to kill silently. Other than that, the only time I've seen his expression or tone deviate from neutral is when he's talking to me, or the heroes, and it's just his mouth, or the way he says things. His eyes might narrow, but the look in them never changes.

Bruce's meetings were usually somewhere in the early morning hours, not long after patrols of the city would end. Having to finish one of those death marches, then fix myself up to immediately go back out, and in _public?_ That sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least I got those hours to myself, even if The Owl would leave with strict guidelines as to what I would be _doing_ during them.  
  
"How did it feel to take _your_ mask off?" I ask, after a few moments. "That last time, when you knew you were out?"  
  
Grayson considers my words, gaze falling to the mask in my hands. "I still had to get out of Gotham," he says eventually. "I couldn't dwell on it. But it was; strange, for that moment. Richard was the mask, not what I happened to wear on my face, and taking the mask off that last time wasn’t the same as stepping into his role. It felt… vulnerable."  
  
It might sound totally crazy to any normal person, but I understand _exactly_ what he's saying. Grayson's real identity _was_ Talon, that's what he was raised and trained to be. He isn't the Richard that I saw in the news, just like the Owl isn't anything like 'Mr. Wayne'. The public image of Bruce Wayne's son was more of a lie than Talon's skintight suit or black mask could ever be. He might not go by Talon anymore, but that doesn't mean that he's 'Richard' either. It's not that _simple._ But living for four years as a dead man helped him overcome a bit of the Owl's training, and who knows? If I get that long, maybe it'll help me too.  
  
"I'm _Jason_ ," I reaffirm, mostly to myself, "and this..." I raise the mask, pulling my hands apart so I'm only holding the very edges. " _This_ is Talon. I wish it was that _easy._ " A tiny shudder shakes me, fear stirring at just the _thought_ of abandoning the name, and immediately anger takes its place. It's easier to be angry than afraid, always. It's how I got through the Owl's training. I held onto everything he did to me, twisted every spark of fear into fury and added it to the core of my being. Rage can be used to fuel yourself, to go on long past when a human body should, but fear cripples. Fear _weakens_.

I drop the mask like it's burned me, raising my left hand to rake back through my hair.  
  
Grayson leans down, retrieving the mask from its place at my feet, and contemplates it for a few seconds. Eventually, he looks over at me. I can barely hold his gaze. "I consider myself Talon most of the time," he admits. "After so long it is simply what I am, and I doubt that will ever truly change. But that doesn't mean I have to be _the_ Talon. I can choose who to use my skills for, and on."

For being turned into a cold machine of a killer, Grayson is kind of surprisingly honest. I guess when you're as good as he is, there's not much _point_ in lying to anyone who already knows who you are. Especially not... what are we to him? Allies? Friends? Something _infinitely_ more complicated?  
  
I don't even know what _he_ is to _me_. Teacher, brother, just a partner in suffering? Being around the worst of humanity, being _one of_ the worst of humanity, kind of alienates you from anyone else. You stop being a person yourself; you become something more and so much _less_ at the same time _._ A knife hooked into a belt, a gun in a hand, a weapon to be given a target and aimed to kill. It should probably freak me out that killing comes so naturally to me, that I'm so damn _good_ at it, but it just doesn't. There's no way I could have survived the Owl if killing still traumatized me like it did at the start. There's only so much blood you can get on your hands before you stop noticing any more of it. If there's anything that I did really, truly _lose_ under the Owl's conditioning, it was my morals. Most of them, anyway. After the first couple of years I only balked a couple times, when the idea of something the Owl wanted me to do made me physically _sick_ , but it cost me. It cost me a _lot_ , and I always ended up doing what he wanted anyway.  
  
_The Owl_.  
  
Grayson's point clicks in my head, and I tilt my head back with a soft snort, staring up at the ceiling. "Being named Bruce, doesn't make you _him_?" I offer, and the original Talon gives a tiny smile. It only creeps me out a little.  
  
"That's one way to put it. Choose whatever name you want, Jason, that's your decision just as much as what you do with your life. Calling myself a normal person doesn't mean it's true, but being named a weapon doesn't mean I have to be used as one either. They're just words, in the end."

He hands me back the mask, which I take slightly reluctantly, before one more way to phrase that particular message comes into my head. I give a tight smile, looking up at him.  
  
"Being Dick doesn't make you a dick, huh?" I cringe a little bit, _still_ expecting Grayson to turn and hit me for _daring_ to mock him. It was easier when he was still injured badly enough to be bedridden, and I was pretty sure I could run from him if he _did_ snap, but it's been harder since. I keep expecting Grayson to look at me with that same ice-cold _fury_ that the Owl always did whenever I'd done something stupid, but Grayson never does. He hasn't even shown any kind of sign that it irritates him. I mean, he doesn't show much of anything, but I haven't picked up any body language that hints any reaction at _all_.

It's strange to be around someone I can't read, that I can't _learn_. Even the Owl behaved a certain way, most times; it just took practice to learn his patterns. I just _can't_ get a fix on Grayson. The Owl might have been cold, impossible to read on a normal day, but when emotion did get a hold of him it was easy to see, and usually a _whole_ lot of pain wasn't far behind. Grayson doesn't give any hint, not even with what should be _involuntary_ body language, of what he's thinking. It's a hell of a talent, and also a really unnerving one.  
  
He gives a tiny smile and a small shake of his head, more physical expressions for my benefit. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"  
  
Probably not. Not unless he tells me to stop, and then I think I actually might listen to him. He's a little too dangerous to ignore, even for me. "What else am I going to call you? Grayson, Talon, _Richard?_ Ugh. I'll stick with Dick, thanks anyway." I could never call him Talon, Grayson is the name I've connected in my head to the 'perfect, loyal sidekick' that the Owl always compared me to, and Richard... He doesn't even consider _himself_ Richard, how could I? It might take a while to stop thinking of him as Grayson, but I can at least call him Dick out loud.  
  
"Well, it certainly is unique to you," he concedes. He pushes off the bed, straightening back up to standing as he eases weight back onto his injured leg. Still not anything that any normal person would notice. It's just a tiny variation in his stance, in the way his weight swings as he stands. "Interested in starting lessons?" he asks, and my gaze snaps up to meet his.  
  
" _Yes_ ," I say, excitement grabbing hold of me as I follow him to standing. "I am _so_ ready." For once, I'm actually looking forward to training, how weird is that?  
  
He flicks his gaze over me. There's no real hint of it, but I'm sure that he's considering what he knew of the injuries I had — the Owl's last beating — and how long each would have taken to heal. I'm pretty much fine — even by the standards of normal people, which means I'm in perfect health according to a Talon — and none of the lingering damage will slow me down. He _must_ know that. Grayson is one of a rare handful of people in the world trained better than I am — that I've seen proof of, at least — and if I'm going to have even the smallest prayer against the Owl, I'll need whatever skills he can pass on. He's been recovering, and I wasn't exactly healed myself, so even though he agreed to teach me we haven't had a chance to start yet. I've been going just a little stir crazy.  
  
"I think Harlequin might try and kill us both, or just me, if we did any sparring," he comments, and I glare at him.  
  
"Hey! You backing out, _Dick?_ " I snap, and his lips curl into another small smile.  
  
"No, we'll start. Just no sparring, for now. I prefer my head being attached to the rest of me." Like Harlequin could actually hurt him. Yeah right; not _even_ with the healing leg.  
  
"What are we going to do apart from that?" I ask, a little aggressively. Is there any other way? Repetition, or exercise, is one thing, but any real training should be hands on, active. What can he teach me without sparring, without testing my skill against his own?  
  
"Basics," he answers simply. "I'll have to know where your skill level is before I can know what's left to teach you, or what I can improve. We'll start there, and that should take enough time for us to heal. No one can complain then."  
  
I bite back the anger sitting at the tip of my tongue. Even _knowing_ he's right, the idea just _irritates_ me. I haven't done basics since the first few months of real combat training the Owl put me through, and I learned _quick_. Then again, if I'm being honest, I've been sitting on my ass for almost three months, and I could probably use a little sharpening to put the edge back on. If that means a few weeks of doing simple stuff, I guess that's not so bad.

It actually kind of disturbs me how much I want to impress Grayson, how much I want to _prove_ that I can be just as good as he is. I've never felt that way about anyone, or anything. The Owl didn't really inspire me to bebetter; he just _demanded_ that I be. It's not the same thing at all.  
  
I sigh and shove the anger away _._ "Alright, fine." A thought occurs to me, and I grin up at him. "Can you imagine Harlequin's face the first time we _actually_ spar?"  
  
I don't really know how to do anything but go at someone full throttle, and I'd bet Grayson is just the same way. The Owl doesn't pull punches, and he didn't teach us to do it either. Doing basics might be one thing, but I bet we freak Harlequin out the first time we spar when she's around. It probably won't be close to as brutal as our training was under our kidnapper, but it will definitely still look like a real fight.  
  
Grayson's smile returns, flickering away in the next instant. "I'm sure it will be an interesting moment," he agrees. He reaches forward, touching the mask that's still in my hands. "Keep it as long as you need to, Jason," he says quietly, brushing his hand over mine as he pulls back. He turns and heads through the open doorway, and I'm alone in our shared room once more.  
  
I take a moment to stare down at the mask, at the representation of everything I was turned into, and then drop it back on my bed. I can't get rid of the damn thing, not yet. Maybe that'll change, when I figure out exactly what I _am_ under it, and who _Jason_ has turned into. I don't _have_ to know now, and that makes _all_ the difference, but it might be nice to know, someday.  
  
I follow Grayson, something almost like a bounce in my step.  
  
Sure, things aren't _great_. I'm sequestered in yet another underground cave — abandoned tunnel system, technically, but that's close enough — waiting for the unbelievably dangerous supervillain I betrayed to find me, and I might also be pretty much condemned to running and hiding for the rest of my life, but things could be a lot worse. I'm getting actual sleep, I'm all but healed, I've got one of the most dangerous people I've ever met training me, and I'm getting actual social interaction — however uncomfortable — with real people. That more than makes up for all the shit that might happen if the Owl catches me. Anyway, I think I trust Grayson not to let that happen, however weird or terrible of a decision that might be.

Things are fine, and that's _way_ better than they've been for _years_ , even before the Owl.  
  
Besides, now I've got a chance to fight. I'll be _damned_ if our bastard of a captor takes me down without a struggle. I've _never_ been what he wanted, and I can't wait to make him eat those words. Maybe I'm not the Talon that Grayson was, but I'm _anything_ but helpless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Jason, in any universe, always has self-worth issues. Like, if you write a well-adjusted Jason who doesn't have some kind of issues about being worth less (even in a total self-sacrificing, 'I'll take the bullet because you're worth more than me' way) I don't know where you got your Jason from. That man always has these issues.  
> I'll be back later today with something else, not totally sure what yet. XD


	4. Blood in the Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, this is another chapter from Dick's PoV, coming in at a little under 7k. It's mostly a set up chapter, and an in between to not skip a huge section of time, but watch out for the twist at the end. Have fun!

"Come on," Jason wheedles, half a grin on his face. His green-blue eyes are slightly narrowed, challenging, and he's moving backwards along the corridor in front of me, matching my pace. "Just  _once._ "

"It's not a particularly good idea," I repeat, for probably at least the hundredth time. "What would it prove, anyway?"

"I just want to  _know_ ," the younger Talon says, repeating the same talking points he's been using for the last couple of months. "You're holding back, and I want to know what you can  _really_  do. Come on, Dick, fight me for real, just one time?"

I raise an eyebrow for his benefit, giving an outward sign of the tiny stirring of bemusement in my chest. Tamped down under years and years of repression, for my own safety, but enough for me to feel it. It might be me slipping, but I can't help but almost appreciate the small bursts of emotion Jason is capable of inspiring. I'll admit, training him is quite the project. I've felt more in the months since I met him than I can remember feeling in the last eleven years or so. Emotion is a weakness, it's dangerous, but I think I like it.

Jason's good, there's no denying that. He doesn't have the same natural acrobatic ability that I do, but considering I spent my first years as part of a circus, that's not surprising. There pretty much isn't  _anyone_  that has my kind of acrobatic skill, no one I've met anyway. Not even Bruce was as good as I was, though part of that was definitely his metal suit. It's easier to move without that kind of weight holding you down. What Jason  _does_  have is impressive instinct, when it comes to fighting. My ability to predict what people will do, and how they'll react in a fight, comes mostly from the length of my training, but his seems to be entirely instinctive. Even when I switch things up during our spars by taking my style of fighting and flipping it around, he still reacts correctly more times than not.

To be honest, it's nice to be training again. At least, the softened version of what Bruce called 'training'. Exercise isn't the same, and there was only so much I could do to keep my skills intact by myself. I was a little rusty, I knew that. Going up against Jason is forcing me to hone myself again, to get back to the peak of how good I was. It's also interesting relearning how my own body works. When I hit my growth spurts I adjusted my exercises to compensate for the added height, mass, and muscle, but I never really got the chance to figure out how it would translate over to fighting. It's small adjustments, but important ones.

"A real fight?" I echo, slowing my pace a touch to give us a little more time before we reach the large common area of the Jokester's underground base. "I'm training you, what's the hurry? We'll get there."

Who knows? When I get him trained to the same level I am, more or less, he might actually be able to teach me a few things too. It's hard to say if Bruce trained us identically or if we each have skills or moves the other doesn't, but if we have any differences then we can probably learn from each other. If nothing else, Bruce might have changed a few things during the four years I was 'dead', and Jason might know them. Even if he didn't, Jason is still a good sparring partner, and we could theoretically figure out some things between us.

"I want to know how far I have to go," he argues, and then his grin gets a little wider. "What, afraid you can't handle me if I really go at you, Dick?"

I'm starting to figure out Jason's methods of attack, including those that are only verbal. When persuasion, however brief, is ineffective, he goes straight into manipulation. Goad an opponent into attacking, into doing what he wants them to in response to his challenges and taunts. Against anyone else, I'm sure it works wonders.

"Not particularly," I reply, adding a touch of dry sarcasm to my voice. It's actually kind of freeing to be around people that don't require me to act. The Jokester's group knows who I am,  _what_  I am, and of course Jason has a better idea than any of them. I don't have to act like a normal person around them, put up the facade of Richard, or Grayson, or whoever I decide to be for the day. All of that has been purely manual for a long time — my natural state is a blankness that rivals Bruce on his coldest days — and what little emotion I still feel doesn't have any effect on that. It does mean that I have to choose to change my expression, or tone, to give them some idea of what my mood is like, or what my words are intended as. I don't mind that, not when the exchange is not having to keep up the — honestly exhausting — task of behaving like a normal person.

"So then, what? Is there not anything else, are you  _that_  rusty?" I glance up, over his head and towards the heavy metal door behind him that we're approaching, as he continues. "Four years is a long time; I guess it's understandable if the great Grayson has lost some of his skill to inactivity. Hm?" He stops right before the last step, the one that would have had his back hitting the door, and his grin lowers to a small smirk.

I mirror the expression, and Jason's flickers in response, gaze immediately transferring to studying in the second or two before I speak. Trying to figure out the change, what my angle is. "I suppose you can find out," I counter smoothly, "if you can get Harlequin to agree to allow it."

His eyes widen a little, and then he gives me a nasty scowl. "That's not fair," he nearly hisses.

"Was fair a requirement?" I ask, letting one corner of my mouth stay in that smirk. If Harlequin had final say — and since we're basically living off her charity, she pretty much does — she'd never let what Jason wants happen. She doesn't even like the training we're doing now, and that's about as tamed down as either of us can work and still gain anything. Any slower, or gentler, and I'd never be able to teach him anything.

But a real fight, even if we keep our sparring rules? No way. She'd definitely try and kill me if I went at Talon with everything I'm really capable of, or at least do her very best to hurt me in some fashion. I am, after all, not Jason.

Most of the Jokester's group are content to ignore me, and I actually prefer that, but the Jokester and Harlequin — especially her — have taken up what almost seems to be some kind of parental role. Mostly for my younger replacement, Jason, but, to a lesser extent, for me as well. But as much as that might apply, not that I really understand why they're even bothering to try with me, it will certainly not protect me if I go after their new, younger charge.

Perhaps it's the lack of my kind of history with them, or perhaps it's just that youth seems to be the ultimate blind spot for heroes, but they've certainly taken a real liking to Jason that isn't mirrored in their interactions with me. I'm waiting, fairly curiously, for the day they really grasp the fact that he is a  _Talon_. I wonder if this newfound protective streak will survive that realization, or if they'll develop the same strained, distant kind of connection they're trying to make with me? If I thought just telling them would make a difference, I'd try and remind them of what I know Jason is capable of, and the things he's doubtless already done. Bruce wouldn't have ever allowed Jason into the field if he wasn't sure that my replacement could torture, or murder, without hesitation. But even if my word was one that held any real weight to the Jokester, or Harlequin, words don't seem to get through to them.

They'll realize, eventually.

To some extent, Jason is  _my_  responsibility anyways, not theirs. After all, I'm the one that convinced him to betray Bruce, and in doing so to permanently set himself on one of the most dangerous hit lists out there. Right now, as far as I know, the word among the other heroes and villains will just be that Owlman's latest Talon vanished. He might be presumed dead, it's not an unlikely fate, but Bruce won't have given out any official information. He'll want Jason dead before anyone figures it out, or he says anything about it.

Having his first Talon die was one thing, but having the second straight out turn on him? I might be at the top of his list — if it comes out what I did, there will be some serious hell to pay — but Jason comes in a close second.

I got my replacement into that situation, even if he  _is_  the one that technically chose it. He didn't have much of a choice to speak of, not really. He didn't escape the Jokester's gang when given the chance, and didn't immediately leap to help when Bruce went after me. Regardless of his injuries at the time, those aren't things that Bruce would have forgotten, or forgiven, easily. I honestly don't know how bad the punishment would have been, but given my own past experience I'd say bad. Extremely bad.

In light of that, even if it was Jason's hesitation, it was me who really convinced him to turn. At least my presence, if not my words. With that kind of fate waiting for him, how could he choose anything but to cast in his lot with me?

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and turns his back on me to open the door. It opens out, and I take a step forward and towards him as it swings fully open.

" _Surprise!_ "

I tense reflexively, my weight rolling back onto my heels in preparation for some kind of escape, before the situation registers in my mind. Jason jerks back at the same time, colliding into me with slight pressure, as his shoulders draw forward into the beginnings of a combat stance. He realizes what's going on just after I do.

The bright colors are generally normal for the Jokester's group, but the multi-colored party hats are most definitely not. A fair amount of the gang is here. The Jokester and Harlequin, of course, but also some members of the group that are generally more sporadic in their appearances. Especially around me and Jason. Harvey Dent, Croc, Ivy, Enigma, there's even the slim figure of the doctor that their group uses, Leslie Thompkins. All wearing hats, and looking varying degrees of enthusiastic.

Jason takes a cautious step forward, not quite relaxed but no longer on the edge of leaping into combat. "What's going on?" he asks, slipping through the open door. I follow him, but halt inside the arch of the doorway.

Harlequin and the Jokester share an honestly confused looking glance, before she answers the question. "It's your eighteenth birthday, sweetie!" she announces, and though I can't see his face I can see the reaction in Jason's muscles to the statement. They lock for a moment in surprise, and then he eases out of combat readiness, straightening up the last inch or so.

"Birthday?" he echoes, sounding more confused than anything else. "Is it August?"

"The sixteenth," the Jokester says with a wide grin, confirming it. He steps forward, holding out his hands, with one party hat in each, to the two of us. The one he offers Jason is a dark green, and mine a dark blue. Did he actually color coordinate, or did we just get the luck of decent colors? "We're having a  _party_  for you, kid! Cake, presents, the works! Come on!"

Jason takes his hat with slight hesitation, and I shake my head at the Jokester's expectant look towards me. He shrugs, and easily shepherds my younger replacement into the crowd of heroes with just a little bit of Harlequin's help. I watch them, glancing around the common area and seeing, as promised, a rather large cake — that I honestly don't know how they got down here — and a pile of wrapped presents. They head towards the tables, chattering among themselves and, mostly, around Jason as opposed to with him. Not in exclusion, but because the younger ex-Talon is silent. The hat is still in his hands — I doubt they'll get him to actually wear it — and he's, at least to my trained eyes, obviously feeling something like discomfort. He's back to that same level of tense, on guard but not committed to a fight yet.

I know why, but does the Jokester know what he's doing? When you become Talon you cease being a person in the true sense of the word. Weapons don't have names, and they certainly don't get praised for their deeds, or for the date they first existed. I have no idea who Jason was before Bruce found him, or what his life was like, but I  _do_  know that for the four years he spent under Bruce's heel, celebration simply wasn't something that occurred. A party would  _never_  have happened.

Even I, as the public figure of Richard Grayson, didn't get birthdays in the sense of a celebration. They were for show, and attending them was work just as much as training. Worse, sometimes. I have some memories of parties from my time before Bruce, but they're fuzzy, and I try not to think about that portion of my life any more than necessary. Jason might have clearer memories since he was older when Bruce found him, if he had a life where things like this happened, but it definitely isn't something that he's used to. At least, not anymore.

Having attention focused on him, being celebrated purely for existing, and being given things without expectation of either investment or return? Those are impossibilities in a reality like the one he and I know.

I step fully into the room, closing the door behind me, and make my way to the table they've gathered at, around the enormous cake. There's some cheering, and a rather loud whoop of laughter, as the first slices start getting handed out to people on small cardboard plates. They're still talking, laughing, and I observe the easy interactions with curiosity. Clearly, the Jokester's group truly is what he'd called it when he initially invited me to join them. Family.

Harlequin comes up to me, offering me a plate with a small smile. "Care for some?" she asks quietly, beneath the chatter from the others.

I shake my head. "No, thank you." The smell itself is sweeter than anything I want to try putting on my tongue, and I feel my throat clench a bit in reaction to just that. The cough builds in the back of my throat, but I hold it in until she turns back to the group before raising one hand to smother the burst. Luckily, it's one I get under control fairly quickly, not prompted by anything other than the muscles of my neck tensing, and I head for a corner of one table and away from the main cluster of heroes.

The tickle at the back of my throat is persistent, a constant hitch of my breath on every inhale. So minuscule that I know no one else has noticed — only partially because I'm absolutely sure they would have mentioned if they had — and that I'm only aware of due to the feeling of it. It's not dangerous, easily manageable to someone who has as much practice dealing with injuries as I do, but it is mildly concerning. I don't like anything happening to me that I can't control one-hundred percent of the time, and this definitely qualifies.

Initially, the damage from Bruce's chemical attack was catastrophic. Agonizing pain, and the inability to do anything more than lie still and carefully draw each breath past it, as slowly as possible to not set off another coughing fit. Most of that is gone, and what remains is small in comparison.

A slight, but apparently permanent, rasp to my voice, and that hitch to my breath.

Just under seven months after injury, if it's August now, long enough for all trace of every other injury from my fight with Bruce to fade, but those two symptoms persist. In fact, the hitch is slowly getting worse. It catches me by surprise sometimes, in the moments my attention lapses, and while I can always get the coughing under control fairly quickly, the fact that it happens at all is a problem.

Unfortunately, it's not something that I have any immediate solution for. I know the damage didn't fully heal, and I know that for some reason it's getting worse, but without a medical examination from a professional, or the tools to do one myself, I'm in the dark as to how bad things are. Or, more importantly, if it can be fixed. But with Bruce out for my head I'm pretty much confined to our underground safe house, and making my way to a doctor would be pretty close to suicidal.

I take a seat, letting my gaze rest idly on the others as they settle down to eat. Jason looks a bit lost, but it only takes a few moments for him to take a first bite of the cake. He's still not quite part of them, but at least that's his own decision now, not one of theirs. I don't think the less naive members of the group really trust him, but I also honestly think they'd be fools to, with no absolutely concrete proof. Then again, I don't trust anyone fully. If I place even a little bit of trust in someone, I make sure I know exactly what their motivations are, and have a plan to take them out just in case. Paranoia maybe, but in Gotham, and under Owlman? It's really more like healthy defensive tactics.

Even if I could avoid Bruce, which is a slim chance, there's a whole list of other things that would be a problem. Getting caught on a camera, pretty much  _any_  camera, would mean Bruce would have me. Anyone recognizing me would be almost as bad. Sure, one person claiming they saw the dead Richard Grayson might not spark many inquiries among the actual news, but for Bruce? Same problem, he'll know. The odds only get worse when I consider having to actually then find someone to conduct the examination. Even if they didn't recognize me, having someone come in with as many scars as I have is a huge red flag. I'd rather Bruce not know that I was looking for medical help, that might clue him in to the remnants of my injury. If he doesn't already suspect.

There is the doctor that the Jokester has looking out for him, the Leslie Thompkins sitting two tables away from me, but that won't work particularly well either. Usually they go to her, and that once again raises the issue of my inability to be anywhere public, now that Bruce is looking for me. She does come by here, but in this seven month span that's happened twice, including right now, so it's not something I can count on. Besides, she only came with basic supplies the one time she came for an actual wound, and my injury is internal. She'd need whatever machines she has in her clinic to give me a diagnosis, not just emergency supplies.

Lastly, there is the issue of the others. If I'm going to investigate how bad this injury is, I'll need to do it quietly. Harlequin will overreact, turn the slight inconvenience into some massive crippling thing, and there's absolutely no need for that. It might be something I need to have checked, when possible, but it isn't nearly as bad as what she'll turn it into.

The other person that will be affected will be Jason.

If the remnants of my injury get revealed to the group, to him in particular, he could panic. This is getting worse, however slowly, and it's not particularly clear how far it might go before easing, if it ever does. Being left alone with the Jokester's group might not be a terrible fate for him, eventually, but he likely won't see it that way. Not yet.

He needs more time.

So, if I talk to Dr. Thompkins, I'll also need to be sure that it stays between the two of us. Considering my background as Talon, and my unfamiliarity with the doctor and how I might have affected both her and her practice during my time as Bruce's weapon, I have no guarantee she'll be willing to do that for me. The two times that she's looked me over I was firmly unconscious, and she was long gone by the time I woke. When she came down here that single time, I  _was_  around, but she was focused on stabilizing Dent and barely spared me a glance. She's looked at me this time, but not much more than that.

And if I do talk to her, what then? Assuming she agrees, I'll still have to plan to get out of here, up to wherever she works above ground, so she can do a real examination. That's exceedingly dangerous, though I imagine that given these heroes' usage of her as their doctor they must have some way of getting to her outside of Bruce's surveillance. If not, she would have been killed a long time ago. Bruce would never have allowed someone to help them like this, she would have become a public warning not to involve civilians in their fight, and, to the rest of Gotham, that anyone helping the Jokester would meet a slow end.

She wouldn't be the first. Most people only survive helping the Jokester's gang — or any other hero that comes by Gotham, for that matter — by virtue of then becoming one of them. Harlequin is a rather prime example of that phenomenon. The others, if Bruce ever finds out, don't live long. Though I have to believe that there are a fair amount of civilians that have helped them and gone unnoticed since, after all, it's hard to think that they've managed to get everything they need to live — food, mainly — without at least  _some_  help. I suppose the ones that have been caught are the unlucky ones, or the ones that didn't take the right precautions to avoid Bruce's close attention. Not that many of them would have the faintest clue how to do it the right way, most people don't have that kind of casual information.

I'm probably the only person who really knows how Bruce works, and what it takes to keep someone truly safe from him. First hand experience, after all.

I spent most of my career as Talon studying Bruce's methods so I could escape him, and I doubt Jason was that focused. He won't have the same detailed information that I do, or the same knowledge of exactly how Bruce tracks the people he wants to find. Things have likely changed some in the four and a half years since I escaped, but I'm still probably the only person with anything close to that much information. The locations of security systems, and knowledge like that, is outdated and useless now, but everything else should be more or less intact.

The Jokester's gang might be accomplished heroes, but their evasion of Bruce is equal parts teamwork and scrounging. It's not tactical, and they certainly don't have the need to hide as well as Jason and I have to. They might be thorns in his sides, but they aren't the direct threats to his reputation that we are. They don't have the skills needed to protect Jason for long, and honestly I don't think that my replacement has the temperament to stay hidden down here forever, which will make things harder.

That's something else I'll need an answer for.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm fine with hiding Jason and myself for the rest of our lives, or Bruce's. I'd like not to tempt fate, or to put myself squarely in the center of my ex-mentor's sphere of attention. But what does the younger Talon want? Does he want to spend the rest of his life in hiding, can he even tolerate that? If he can't, which side does he want to join?

Jason can stay a criminal. Granted it won't be nearly as high level, since he'll need to stay out of Bruce's way, so it won't be particularly pleasant, and he'll need to keep his head down for the rest of his life, but it is one plausible direction he can take. The same path exists as a civilian. The inability to take any kind of job where an ID is required limits employment to small, under the table jobs, and among those, only the ones not dealing in places with too many cameras. I lived that life. Not particularly glamorous, but it was enough to keep me going.

Then, of course, there's the last option.

If Jason wants to, he can make no attempt to hide. He's young enough, and doesn't have enough of a reputation as Talon, that he could take his skills and join up with probably any group of heroes he wanted to. He's not recognizable as Bruce's sidekick without the suit and mask, if you aren't clued in enough to match up the black hair and specific skill set, anyway. Most heroes might be good at fighting, or working as a team, but most aren't amazingly observant.

That might be the most dangerous choice but it's also, interestingly enough, probably the safest. Among a group of heroes is a good place to be protected, even if it does throw him right out into the open. What it absolutely  _does_  mean is that we'll have to go our separate ways. No group of heroes would ever agree to take me on as a member, with the possible exception of the Jokester's, but staying in Gotham is just asking for it. Unlike Jason, I  _am_  well known. Even if people didn't recognize me as Talon, my particular set of talents is a very distinctive one, and that would betray me. The years of aging did do a decent enough job of changing me, and I don't look much like I did when I was Bruce's protege, but it still won't be hard to attach me to my previous identity. Especially if any hero caught me with my mask off, and given their ideas of camaraderie that's not an idea that's very far fetched.

Jason can get away with it but I can't, unless any set of heroes, still excepting the Jokester, is forgiving enough to accept me, and honestly I doubt that will happen. Even if I hadn't gained a reputation through Gotham itself, I did enough damage outside of it, to heroes and villains alike, that it's likely neither side will consider me worth risking themselves. What kind of worth does my  _word_  have, among those who consider themselves paragons of justice, and light? I'm a killer, a murderer, regardless of the reason I did it. I doubt that any of them will ever take a chance on Owlman's weapon, the Talon that was sent to disrupt so many of their plans.

I never truly considered it before, there was no need to, but I suppose my previous escapades did give me quite a crippling hand of cards to start with in my new life. Even before I came back for the Jokester, and Bruce realized I was alive, I still had to behave as though my old mentor was looking for me. In addition, the things I did as Talon have successfully alienated me to either side of the never ending skirmish war. I'm too damaged and bloodstained for the heroes, and the rare few villains that might be willing to go up against Bruce are also the ones that would probably torture and then kill me, just to deny Bruce the satisfaction of doing it himself. Not exactly an enticing option.

The Crime Syndicate might present a semi-united front to the civilians, and against heroes, but coming from inside of it, I know better. They don't outright fight, that would leave them far too open to their enemies, but they aren't anything like real allies either. They help each other as far as they have to, to keep the others from being defeated and taken out of play, but never for free, and never if it isn't worth it to them. Bruce, out of all of them, probably did the most for others. The information he could get, or the favors, were usually worth the effort of helping, or sending me to help. Sidekicks got traded around a lot, as extravagant weapons to be loaned out for use by other people. I was a valuable asset, so I spent a fair amount of time working under other villains.

Bruce, as Owlman, is far too useful a sometimes-ally to the other villains to risk antagonizing him by taking me in, regardless of how useful  _I_  am. Most villains wouldn't be willing to chance what Bruce could do to any of them. Identities, blackmail material, a straight out attack? Bruce could do any of that to almost anyone, it pays to be well connected.

I suppose, at least for now, there's not much that I can do. I'll have to wait until I get a chance to speak to Dr. Thompkins, alone. There's no telling how long that might take, and then how long it might take to get up to where she works. Assuming, of course, that she both agrees to help me and that it's somewhere I can get to without too much trouble.

After that I'll need to know how bad the injury to my lungs is, if it's treatable or will heal naturally, and what Jason intends to do. Preferably in that order. Without that information, my plans aren't worth creating, yet. Anything I consider now will likely not even resemble the final plan, once I have my required information, so thinking about it is really just a waste of time. There's not much to do but wait for the opening I need, and take the time in between to teach Jason whatever I can.

He's finished with his cake, looking moderately more relaxed than before, and leaned back in his chair, watching the conversation around him as the others finish their own pieces of the dessert. Jason glances back in my direction, and I meet his look when it turns to me. There's something considering in his eyes, an internal calculation not unlike the one he gets in our spars. For once, I have no idea what he's thinking about. I raise an eyebrow, doing my best to ask a silent question, and he turns back to the table.

"How did you know?" he demands of the assembled heroes, cutting through their small talk. I can only see about half of their expressions from my angle, though reading Croc is usually an exercise in futility anyway, but the gazes I can see flick to Dr. Thompkins.

"I looked you up," she answers, a smile in her voice, even though all I can see is the back of her head. "Black hair, blue eyes, first name Jason, there aren't too many kids in Gotham that fit all of that. Jason Todd, you ended up in my clinic a few times when you were young, before you went missing. I had your information on file, including a birth date."

Oh, I do hope she was careful. If Bruce finds out she looked up the name of his latest weapon, she's going to end up dead really quickly. Or part of the Jokester's gang, I suppose.

Jason nods, tapping his fingers against the plastic of the table he's sitting at, and I can see his shoulders rise a fraction of an inch with tension. "Then why not do this for Dick?" he asks sharply, in a tone that is highly accusatory. The silence is absolute, and I watch with mild interest.

So, this was what the look was about. Jason did the math. We've been here seven months, and my own birth date is the twenty-first of March. I've had one birthday come and go without a word while the both of us were first recovering from our injuries, I'm twenty now, to his eighteen. It's not like Jason's case, either. They might have had to look him up, but I was publicly adopted by Bruce, so as the heir to Wayne Enterprises my birthday was a largely public thing. It's unlikely that none of them would have known, or that it just slipped all of their minds. Jason knows, after all. It's far more likely they just chose not to do anything, since I'm certainly not in the same spot in their minds as Jason.

I really, honestly, don't care that they ignored it. I haven't looked forward to a birthday since I turned six and Bruce found me, it hadn't even really occurred to me to think about it. Ticking off another box in how old I am, that's all it's meant to me in a long time. Clearly, for some reason, Jason doesn't view it with the same lack of importance. I don't mind being more or less ignored by them, in fact it's actually something that I find refreshing. No expectations, no careful studying; I'm free to just live in whatever manner I choose.

"Grayson isn't in the same category as you," Dent hedges, his tone just shy of flat out hostile as he glances back at me.

Jason's shoulders stiffen, and he shoves back from the table and to standing. None of the heroes completely react to the sudden, threatening gesture, but some do tense a little bit, and the heroes to either side of his chair, the Jokester and Ivy, slide back a few inches to not be fully trapped against the table. Good instincts all around, really.

"What makes him different than me?" Jason snaps, hands in fists at his sides. "Why do you treat  _him_  like a threat, and me as a kid?!" His anger, the emotion that with Jason is never far from the surface, comes back full force. I admit, he has a point, though I understand why this particular group of heroes doesn't trust me in the slightest. I'm probably only here because I'm the key to getting Jason to stay as well, and because they've got definite proof that Bruce very much wants me dead.

Harlequin follows the younger ex-Talon to standing, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "Jason, it's not like that."

"No, it  _really_  is," he counters. "I'm not a kid. I was  _Talon,_  and Bruce nearly  _killed_  Dick! Did you miss that, or are you ignoring it?!"

Harlequin trades glances with a few other people at the table before answering. "It's hard to trust someone who's done what Grayson has, Jason, that's  _all_."

"What makes you think I haven't done the same?" Jason spits out, and I can physically see the flinches of the heroes. "Don't like to think about that, do you?" he asks viciously. I should probably stop him, but, honestly? They'd have to come to terms with this at some point anyway, it's not like I'd be doing them any favors by stopping Jason from telling them the truth of the matter. He straightens up, and I can see his muscles smooth out through likely conscious effort. Forced, though not complete, relaxation. "We're done with this," he states flatly, looking around the table. "If you're going to keep shutting him out like this, then you'd better do the same thing to me. I didn't do it to  _you,_  but just because you don't  _know_  what I've done doesn't mean I'm any less bloody than he is, hypocrites."

He turns on his heel, leaving the table full of uncomfortably silent heroes behind, and strides towards me. I follow him with my gaze, looking up as he comes to a stop in front of me.

"I want that fight," he demands, before looking back over his shoulder at the other table, "and none of you get to say a  _damn thing._  I'm not innocent, I'm not a kid, and I don't have any obligation to  _any_  of you." He looks back down at me, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well?"

I study him for a second, then give a single nod. He steps back as I get to my feet, turning and stalking his way through the common area and towards the center, to the largest of the open areas where we do all of our training. The tickle at the back of my throat intensifies a bit as I follow, and I raise a hand to cover my mouth as I let the cough out before it can choke me. It's muffled, and I only let the one out before I strangle back the rest, but I feel speckles of something wet splatter onto my palm. As I pull my hand back, lowering it, I catch the bright red color of the specks. Blood. I shove the hand in the pocket of my cargo pants instead of letting it hang, wiping the liquid off where no one else will see. Not the heroes at my back, or the ex-Talon in front of me.

This changes things.

Whatever damage has been done to my lungs is getting worse, and has gotten to the point where I can safely classify it as serious and in need of attention fairly soon. It also means that I absolutely  _can't_  let anyone in this group know how bad it is, and especially not Jason. Not after this particular event. If there's enough damage to make me cough up blood, then it's highly likely this will continue progressing into crippling and then eventually to fatal, if I can't get it fixed. Maybe not soon, this might be many years away, but the chance that this will just go away, or that it will stay at minor coughing fits, just drastically lowered. If Jason finds out how serious this is, things could go bad pretty quickly. Especially since he's clearly not all too pleased with how the Jokester's group is treating him, or me.

I probably can't wait long enough to get a hold of Dr. Thompkins then; not to mention that her silence is significantly more important now, and I can't guarantee it. I'll have to come up with something else, some way to figure this out that will absolutely keep the information from any of the group until I know one way or another how bad my lungs are damaged, and if they can be fixed. Where do I know, that Bruce doesn't monitor as well as Gotham?

Well, obviously there's Metropolis, but I still can't go to any kind of a real clinic. Not with my face in Bruce's tracking programs; that's far too dangerous. And while it might be efficient, it's probably equally dangerous to force anyone to conduct an examination before killing them, to erase the evidence. It would be hard to know if I'd actually gotten rid of all traces of my being there, and anything might be enough for Bruce to tie it back to me. So, no real doctors, and any black market ones are probably being watched even closer. So, who else?

Well, what about Luthor? He's already helped me once, and while he might not be a doctor he  _is_  a scientist, that might be enough. Plus, I've snuck in and out of LexCorp enough times that I know for an absolute certainty that I can do it again, so that helps. He might be close allies, maybe even friends, with the Jokester, but I think he would probably keep this to himself if I explained things. He'll also likely know enough people to point me in the right direction if this can be fixed, or straight out give me whatever I need to do it myself.

He's probably my best bet, which unfortunately means that I'll have to make up a way of getting to Metropolis. I don't think anyone in the Jokester's group will stop me, though Jason might not like me leaving even on a temporary basis. That might take a while to plan out, but I'm pretty sure I can dodge Bruce's surveillance for one trip in and out of Gotham.

Jason reaches the center area and turns, eyes narrowed, as I stop as well. He slips into a ready stance, turned partially sideways and with arms raised to defend, and I pull my hand out of my pocket to mirror him.

"Sparring rules?" I ask.

Jason nods. "No broken bones, honor a tap-out," he confirms. "You ready, Dick?"

"When you are, Jason."


	5. Clipped Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So I've got a few stories, but I realized they're all either half-finished, or I can't post them yet. So have another chapter from this! Enjoy!

_"Jokester, what can I do for you?"_  Luthor's voice is casually friendly, though a little distracted sounding. Genius doesn't have a time frame, especially not when you happen to be one of the only things standing between an insanely powerful alien and his domination of at least one continent. He's probably in the middle of something, despite the fact that it's nearly four in the morning.

"Luthor," I greet, and there's a moment of silence from across the line.

_"Whatever you've done to him,"_  the older man says coolly,  _"don't kid yourself. We will find—"_

"It's alright, Luthor," I interrupt, "the Jokester's fine, just missing his phone at the moment. I needed a secure line to speak with you, and I knew he had one."

It took almost two months to get the perfect opportunity to do this. Time I couldn't really afford, but I didn't have much of a choice either. Calling is enough of a risk; doing it on an unsecured line would be suicidal at best. Bruce monitors most communication in the city, but I happened to know that the Jokester had a cellphone Luthor gave him for private conversations that were generally emergency related. Given its source, without direct contact Bruce could never hack it; Luthor is at least enough of a genius to make something that secure. This was the only thing in close proximity that I was absolutely sure Bruce had never infiltrated, and it already had Luthor's number in it which made it an even better choice.

Unfortunately, the Jokester guarded it pretty closely. Thus, the length of time needed for me to steal it. The door to his and Harlequin's room creaks, and it would have been pretty seriously incriminating to get caught sneaking into their room. Despite his appearance and attitude, the Jokester's actually pretty careful about leaving tools and such around, so it took a while to catch him leaving the phone anywhere I could get my hands on it. But no one is perfect.

_"I don't recognize your voice,"_  Luthor says in a guarded tone.

"You wouldn't," I answer easily, glancing down the corridor I've secured myself in. One of the more remote ones in the minor labyrinth that is the Jokester's current underground safe house. More importantly it's one that dead-ends, and only has one entrance. If I keep my voice fairly quiet no one should be able to hear me speaking before I can hear them approaching. "I grew up, and got some chemicals sprayed down my throat. You made a clone for me once, Luthor, helped a weapon that wanted a real life. Sound familiar?"

_"Talon?"_  Luthor asks, with some measure of surprise.  _"Jokester told me that you and your replacement were with him. Why are you calling me, and why did you steal his phone to do it? You could have just asked."_

"Did you hear about my fight with Owlman?" I ask, circumventing his questions for the moment. I'll answer, but I want to know how much  _he_  knows first.

_"Yes,"_  Ultraman's nemesis confirms.  _"I heard it didn't go that well for you. Jokester didn't get specific."_  'Didn't go that well' is really an understatement.

"It could have been a lot worse; I could be dead." I lean back against the wall of the corridor, letting my gaze rise to the ceiling. "That's why I'm calling, Luthor. I could use some help."

_"Help? With what?"_  He doesn't sound hostile, yet, and I suppose that's really the best I can ask for right now. He helped me once, but that doesn't mean that he owes me anything, or even that he might be willing to do the same now.

"Those chemicals Owlman sprayed into my lungs? The damage is getting worse, and I don't have the tools or experience to figure out why, or how to stop it. You might not be a doctor, but I figured you probably had enough knowledge of the human body to substitute as one."

_"Jokester has a doctor in Gotham, doesn't he?"_  Luthor asks, still guarded but without the anger I was honestly expecting.  _"Why not ask her, and — I repeat — why the secrecy? You didn't have to steal the phone to call me."_

I probably shouldn't let him know that he's really my only choice. Sure, I  _could_  murder a professional, after forcing them to help me, but that's unreasonably dangerous. Luthor is a hero, and more importantly he's a hero that Bruce isn't directly watching. My previous mentor tries not to get in Ultraman's way unless he has to, since homicidal, super-powered aliens are usually best not to go up against without good reason and at least four plans. Both Luthor and my creator know that.

"It's not that simple," I answer. "My replacement, Jason, barely even tolerates any of your hero friends. He definitely doesn't trust them. Whatever you may think of the Jokester, Harlequin, or the rest of this group, they're not particularly good at keeping secrets. Not many people could against the kind of perception that Jason and I were trained to have. If one of them lets something slip, and Jason finds out I'm getting worse, he could run back to the Owl out of panic. You're not nearby, so you can't let the secret slip; plus you're a significantly better liar. My best option is actually to find a professional and then kill them to erase the evidence, but I thought your type might appreciate me asking nicely instead."

Luthor sighs.  _"We generally don't approve of murder, true. So you need someone to check the damage caused by the chemicals to, what? Your throat, lungs?"_

"Lungs," I confirm. "I would have waited — intended to, actually — but it's my understanding that coughing up blood is usually a fairly serious sign of injury."

_"Coughing—! Oh, Christ."_  I can hear the exasperation in his voice, and take another glance down the corridor. The only person I might not hear would be Jason, but that's just the way that Talons tend to move. " _How long has that been going on, what frequency, how much?_ "

"Roughly two months, the coughing hasn't increased since the blood appeared so it's still two or three times a day, and it's just speckles for now. I suppose a normal person would be coughing more often, but I can hold it in check without too much of a problem." I haven't had  _that_  much practice with throat and lung wounds — Bruce was generally fairly careful to avoid internal injuries of any kind — but pain is pain. Manipulation of my own body is a skill I mastered a long time ago, the source of what I'm controlling doesn't particularly matter.

_"That's... Yes, you're right, that sounds like fairly serious damage. It's getting worse? I suppose if the chemical was dangerous enough, there could still be traces of it in your system, causing further damage as time passes. I'd need to do some tests, take some scans..."_  He's starting to get that distracted tone of voice that all professionals do when they think about everything they may need or have to do in pursuit of a project. " _Can you even get out of Gotham, Talon? Hasn't Jokester been keeping you and — Jason, isn't it? — out of sights, for protection?_ "

"That's not my name," I correct idly, "and yes, he has. It won't stop me. I know how to dodge Owlman's surveillance for a period short enough to get out, and back in afterwards. The Jokester's security is nonexistent in comparison, it won't be a problem. Besides, what's he going to do even if he does figure out I'm gone? Stop me?"

_"I think you're underestimating him, but how you get here isn't really my concern. I assume you know how to get yourself places most people wouldn't want you. Do you know when you'll be here?"_

"Shouldn't be that long," I answer, after thinking a moment, "I just need the right chance. I probably won't get the time to let you know beforehand, though."

_"I'll keep an eye out. To clarify, I assume you'd like me to keep this quiet?"_

"Yes, that would be appreciated. Thanks, Luthor." I hang up without waiting for a response, tucking the phone into one of my pockets.

Well, that's the first part of this done. Luthor agreeing to help was the biggest unknown factor, everyone else I can account for pretty easily. Now it's just coming up with an excuse to give to Jason for why I need to leave this place, and Gotham. That shouldn't be too hard. It will be the actual leaving Gotham that will be difficult, and the planning to get around all the various methods Bruce could use to track me down. Not impossible, but difficult. Harder now that he's actively hunting me down, but insider knowledge will help with that.

The heroes are in and out enough that they could easily miss me being gone — a trip to Metropolis shouldn't take more than maybe a day in total, depending on what Luthor needs to do — but Jason is a little more observant than they are, and around a lot more. Whatever reason I give him I'm almost certain he won't pass it on to the heroes. I don't think Jason is fully capable of trust the way most people think of it, but if he is he trusts me more than them.

I'll just have to wait for a time, likely a night, that the Jokester's group of heroes go out on some job or another so I can slip out cleanly. There's a slight chance involved, since I was very unconscious when I was brought in and I have very little idea where this particular part of the abandoned tunnel system is. However I've done some exploring in my spare time to find exits, to trace which one the Jokester uses to leave, and once I'm above ground everything should go smoothly. The exit they use can't be one that falls under Bruce's surveillance or this place would have fallen apart a long time ago. Plus, I've spent far too much time in Gotham. Orienting myself shouldn't be a problem once I get a look at the surrounding area.

I straighten up off the wall, heading for the door leading back into the main areas. My footsteps are silent against the metal floor. The door opens more quietly than most others in this place, with only a slight screech of rusted metal, and closes with the same level of noise. Not enough to wake or alert anyone, not even with the paranoid senses that most heroes develop. It would probably barely even get my attention, and only if I was close enough to really hear it. There's no risk there. When it comes to suitable paranoia, I'm a step above everyone else in this safe house.

I have to be.

* * *

The excuse I give to Jason turns out to be an easy one. It's a simple lie that I have things to pick up from where I was staying in Metropolis, and he's not particularly pleased with me leaving, even for a period so short, but he accepts it. It's equally easy to get him not to tell the Jokester or Harlequin, with the reason that they would never let me leave here without an accompaniment. He understands that I'll have a much better chance of getting out by myself. If they knew I was heading to Metropolis, regardless of reason, they'd likely try and follow me. Having anyone on my tail will make me far more obvious to Bruce's security system,and none of them can hide like I can.

None of them have the practice needed to leave Gotham the way I plan to.

It's not quite the same anonymity as a taxi ride, but since the backpack with my supplies got left behind in our flight from the first safe house — the one Bruce found — I'm confined to methods that don't require money. The easiest is hitching a ride on the top of a train. Bruce only watches  _some_  of the tracks all the time, and not the one I intend to take. This one, because it's an exceedingly dangerous way to get in or out of Gotham. The tunnels it goes through aren't particularly conducive to travel on the outside. The top and sides are too narrow a margin, even for me, so it requires slipping down into the sections between the cars, and then promptly getting back on top so as not to be seen by anyone riding. Luckily, I've had a lot of practice with that particular maneuver.

It's not a particularly long ride, but I get on and off long before the stations on either side of my trip. Stations are hubs of travel, and those aren't a safe place for me in any city.

LexCorp is most of the way across town, and it's hours of walking before I'm anywhere near the massive headquarters of the corporation. Now this, this is one place I don't need any luck to get into. I don't even need the protection of the night, which is good since it's mid-morning. I've gotten in and out of LexCorp way too many times, and though I might not be as small as I used to be — I won't be able to fit through what were tight crawl spaces even then — I know Bruce's route in as well as my own. If he fits, I'll fit easily.

Getting in is a little harder than I remember, just because I don't have all the tools I used to use, but it's not anywhere resembling truly difficult.

Luthor's private lab is protected against Ultraman by being six levels below ground, and guarded by a sheet of lead embedded with kryptonite that encases all four sides. It's not built to keep humans like Bruce and I out. It's hard to cover all the bases in a place like this, especially when you consider how completely opposite Bruce and Ultraman's approaches are. It may be perfect against an alien brawler like Ultraman, but against a stealth expert like Bruce? There are some fairly clear holes in security. Especially to eyes like mine.

Hm, maybe I should help him patch those holes. It's not like I'm going to be working with Bruce again, and it might be helpful to build some good intentions between Luthor and I. He could be a useful resource. There's really no harm in helping him seal up his building against Bruce's methods of infiltration, and perhaps a fair bit to be gained from it.

Eventually, Luthor comes down into the lab. The door opens with a friendly sounding beep and a faint hiss of air, and the tall, bald man steps through. I let my breathing slip back into normal patterns, away from the meditative counts I'd passed the time with — while I resisted the urge to go through all of Luthor's research — and watch him as the door closes again. He's looking down at a folder full of papers as he slowly moves across the room to one desk. He misses my presence completely.

Granted, I'm in one of the darkest corners, and half hidden behind some piece of equipment I can't name, but still. I swear, if the supervillains of the Crime Syndicate — Bruce included — were just a little less territorial about their heroes they could easily swap enemies and kill them all within weeks. If I was still Talon, and Ultraman wasn't the competitive thug that he is, I could easily have assassinated Luthor by now. Similarly, the Jokester's gang wouldn't stand much of a chance against an opponent like Ultraman or Quick. Then again, with the heroes gone, who would they have left to fight but themselves? That could get ugly very quickly.

Instead of waiting for Luthor to realize I'm here, I take the first step of contact. "Luthor," I call across the room.

His reactions are good. There's a gun in his hand nearly instantly, pulled from within his suit as he spins, and I'm fairly positive that whatever it shoots probably aren't bullets. It looks like one of his inventions, and I take a brief moment to run it against my mental list of other devices I've seen him use. I come up with the fact that whatever this is, it's new. At least to me. After that, it's a calculation of whether or not I can move out of the way fast enough to dodge whatever projectile it uses.

Probably.

His blue eyes lock onto me as he completes the turn, and after half a moment he eases a fraction, letting the barrel of the gun drop a few inches. "Talon," is the wary greeting.

"If I was still Talon you'd never have known I was here," I correct, giving voice to my thoughts. I circle the piece of equipment, staying in the more shadowed areas out of habit more than anything else. I'm nearly certain Luthor won't shoot me, not after he accepted my request to come here, but it's still instinct to stay partially hidden.

Sure enough he stows the gun back inside his suit, watching me approach. He's still taller than me, and thicker too, closer to Bruce's build than mine. He doesn't tower the same way that he used to. "I suppose there's not much point in asking how you got in, is there?" he asks, with a touch of resignation in his voice. At least he's aware that his system and his weapons aren't particularly useful against Owlman.

"I can show you the holes in your security," I offer, and his eyes narrow just a touch in what I identify as suspicion. I may as well explain. "I might be able to use them as an entry point, but so can Owlman. I'd rather both of us be trapped outside, especially if you're going to be doing anything related to me. Maybe I can't help you shut him out completely, but I can at least help you make it much more difficult for him to enter. Consider it payment if you want."

He shakes his head, one hand rising to rub over his forehead. "You haven't quite figured out the whole 'hero' thing, have you? I don't need payment to help a—" he pauses, studying me for a moment. "An associate." There's an interesting choice of word. Not a kid, not a victim, and certainly not an enemy, but also not an ally or a friend. One step above an acquaintance.

Associate.

"Yes," he continues, "I'd appreciate the information. Later though." I suppose heroes operate more on the system of favors than of real payment, and also probably not ones that are as strictly counted and enforced as the 'favors' the Crime Syndicate trades around. "Shall we get started?" I nod in acceptance, and he gestures towards one of the pieces of scientific equipment pulled out partially into the room and away from the wall. "If you could lie face up on that, please, bare chested. It's just a scanner." It looks vaguely like a table, but apart from getting lucky with a guess I probably couldn't have figured out its use. At least without getting the chance to study it first.

I wonder if his quick reassurance comes from a basic sense of bedside manners, or from working with heroes so often. I imagine most heroes aren't keen to lie down on an unfamiliar piece of technology, even if it is a request from a person they trust. I would have, admittedly, but mainly because there would have been far easier ways to kill me than this. Shooting me with that gun, for one, If he wanted to do any kind of experiments, I'm not a particularly interesting subject. I might be trained to the peak of physical strength and agility, but I'm just a human underneath that.

My reasoning, and my understanding of the way Luthor behaves, would have been more than enough to overcome my particular brand of guarded caution. But since I'm not exactly normal, he's probably had to do a fair amount of coaxing over the years. Considering how often I've  _heard_  of him helping others, that means that he actually probably does about double what I know of. He's one of the few truly genius scientist heroes still alive, accessible, and in a position to help anyone else without ludicrous risk. That's quite a position to be in.

I cross the room. Luthor is one step behind me, and I sit down on the edge of the table-like device before reaching down. I hook my fingers under the bottom of both my sweatshirt and the t-shirt beneath it, dragging them up and over the top of my head. Luthor inhales sharply, and I drop the articles of clothing to the ground as I look up in reaction to the noise.

Luthor's eyes are wide, trained downwards at my chest in clear shock. I follow his gaze down to my chest, and it clicks into place.

Ah, right. I tend to forget about the scars covering my skin. They became little more than a part of me a long time ago, and I tend to forget that anyone else thinks anything of them. Most people don't see me shirtless anyway, and Bruce was careful not to give me permanent marks anywhere that would show in my persona as Richard Grayson. In a normal t-shirt, the only signs of damage that are visible are the edges of one or two scars that poke past the neckline. I have a few caused by heroes as well, but most of them don't tend to go after younger villains as hard as they do their mentors so those are minimal.

"Not what you expected?" I ask, as I swing my legs up onto the table.

"I'm not sure  _what_  I was expecting," Luthor admits, dragging his gaze away from me and down to the controls on the side of the table. I lie back, the cold of the metal barely registering against the skin of my back. "I didn't think Jokester used many bladed weapons," he comments, and I flick my gaze over from looking at the ceiling down to him to see if I missed any kind of visual cue that he's joking. No, Luthor's face is serious, if still slightly twisted from its normal position by vestiges of shock. Does he really think that Jokester did this to me? Or any hero, for that matter?

"Most of these aren't from him or his group." I can think of two that are, but only one of the two is really noticeable — the other is a set of claw marks down the back of my left shoulder that are mostly obscured by other scars. Those were a result of getting caught by the end of Croc's claws one time; they sliced neatly through my cape and suit, not to mention my flesh. The more noticeable one is a section of puckered, twisted skin on the right side of my waist. The Jokester caught me with a blast of acid. It's one of his nastier tricks, and one I only had to get hit with once to learn some extreme caution when dealing with it.

That was one of the few wounds I've ever taken that made Bruce actually benched me for any real length of time. I spent two weeks down and recovering after I got that injury.

Luthor meets my gaze, his hands pausing as he studies me. He glances down at my chest, briefly, before speaking. "Then who?"

"Are you really asking," I counter, "or just hoping for an answer different than the one you're thinking of?"

He sighs, shaking his head. "Owlman?" I give a nod, confirming, and he resumes tapping at the controls. "I suppose I'd like to think that not even someone like him is capable of treating a child like that. A fool's hope for our world, I guess."

Heroes. So many of them are still so naively optimistic, even in the face of the odds set against them. Even with the overwhelming proof that our world is  _not_  a good place, not even remotely. It's so far beyond saving that the idea itself is laughable, you only have to look at Gotham to know that. It's a pit of crime with a few villains standing at the top, above the muck, controlling all their minions with puppeteer strings. Bruce is no exception, he's just one of the few who's willing to get his hands dirty. It doesn't matter what anyone may think, no other city is better. Gotham is just unafraid to show the truth of things. It doesn't bother trying to hide behind shining fashion or polite conversation, it leaps for the throat.

Gotham, at least, is honest, and everyone who lives there knows it.

Still, I suppose they wouldn't be heroes if they weren't so glued to the silver lining of everything. I suppose they  _have_  to believe that the world can still be saved, even if it's one person at a time, otherwise what would be the point? If they couldn't do that they wouldn't be heroes to begin with. They're a bunch of optimistic idiots, really.

The machine beneath me kicks to life, gently humming, and I watch as a holographic image of my torso forms above me. My scars are painted red, the undamaged flesh a dull white. It really just makes me vaguely curious why Luthor built this to begin with. Was this its intended purpose, or was it an accident he kept around? Clearly it's a useful piece of technology. Was it for himself, or for some other hero?

"Keep still, please," Luthor requests idly, his gaze flicking back and forth between the 3D image and the controls at his fingertips. At a tap, the flesh leaves the image to reveal muscle and skeleton. Luthor takes another sharp breath between his teeth.

This time, I don't have to wonder what he's reacting to. The skeletal structure is mainly red, looking more like someone dabbed white on it than the opposite. Evidence of the large number of breaks, cracks, and dislocations that I've healed from. Bruce didn't particularly like leaving scars, but bones broke fairly easily under his blows, and he never held those back. True, some of these actually are from various heroes, gang members, or other villains, but most are still Bruce's handiwork.

"How did you even survive damage like this?" Luthor asks through his clenched jaw, teeth audibly grinding together.

"Practice," I answer honestly. "After a few years it's just the breaking that hurts, managing pain is easy." The pain of a bone snapping isn't something that ever goes away, though I definitely don't feel it nearly as intensely as I once did, but once something is already damaged it's just a steady level. Steady pain is easy to control, shut down, and minimize to the back of your mind. A break is sudden, sharp, and much harder to ignore right off the bat. I stopped going into shock from broken bones a long time ago; there's only so many times your body can be surprised by the feeling of something inside you breaking. After a while it just becomes, expected. It was an invaluable resistance as Talon.

It may not be healthy to walk on and stress a healing bone, but what was healthy rarely played a part in what I'm capable of forcing myself to do.

That's part of why heroes will never really understand how Jason and I work. We were trained and raised on pain, it's nothing new to either of us. We can take more than any of these heroes, and probably most of the villains too. After all, there's a reason I'm so famous, and Jason would have been equally famous if given more time as Talon. Bruce's methods might be cruel, and not ideal for any kind of actual loyalty, but that doesn't mean they aren't immensely effective. I wouldn't be eager to test it, but I have the suspicion that I can actually take more flat out pain than my ex-mentor can. When it comes down to the wire. Of course, proving that would require the kind of situation I should never,  _ever_  be in.

"The second Talon, Jason, will he look like this, too?" Luthor sounds mildly sickened, even as his fingers manipulate controls and everything but a mostly opaque image of my lungs vanishes.

I take a moment to consider my knowledge of Bruce's training against what I've seen of Jason. He's got a few scars, certainly, but his torso isn't the map of marks that mine is. "Somewhat," I settle on. "Probably not as bad, I was Talon for five years longer than he was." Younger, too, though I think that my youth balanced out against Jason's lack of previous muscle. Bruce's impacts might have been more damaging to my smaller frame, but I also probably got punished quite a bit less, since I was an acrobat to start with. I could do more of what Bruce wanted me to, and faster. I'd guess that we ended up with roughly the same level of injury in the early years, barring the randomness of our mentor's occasional bad moods. Jason probably got the worse end of those, considering the way he clings to anger as a defense. Bruce wouldn't have appreciated the attitude.

"If anything could make me kill," Luthor mutters, probably only to himself. I let the comment pass without answering, letting my gaze rise to rest idly on the ceiling. The hologram is more white than red, almost surprisingly, and out of my peripherals I see Luthor lean forward to examine it,. His eyes are narrowed. "I'll need to take some samples, for testing," he informs me, straightening up and shutting the machine down with a few taps of his fingers. It dies beneath me with a soft hum, fading into silence. "There's a lot of damage, any normal human probably would have been hospitalized a long time ago. I'll need to figure out if the chemical that caused the original damage is still there, or if it's just a slow degradation caused by something more natural. Sit up, please."

I let my gaze lower to Luthor as I push myself up, turning to swing my legs over the side of the machine. It's tall, my feet don't quite reach the floor unless I point them.

He meets my gaze, pale blue eyes considering. "The easiest way would be to perform an open biopsy — that will give the largest sample — but even with the kind of pain tolerance I'm guessing you have that's at  _least_  a couple of days recovery time. Unless you like having gaping holes in your lungs. Am I right in assuming you can't explain an absence of that long?"

"I can, but I'd prefer not to have to." I told Jason I'd be back in roughly a day, depending on travel times, and I'd rather not make him worry. There's no real way to contact him and let him know the change in plans without alerting the Jokester, and at this point an unexplained absence would mean that I'd likely been captured or killed by Bruce. Better not to let that thought even enter my replacement's mind. "I have a window of about," I pause for a moment to do the math, "seven hours, give or take, before I'll need the rest for travel."

He nods, fingers drumming briefly against the side of the machine. "With the condition your lungs are in, I'd have to put you out to do a normal bronchoscopic biopsy. Otherwise it would aggravate the damaged areas too much for even you, it wouldn't end well. I  _can_  insert a needle in through your chest, take a sample that way. How long can you hold your breath?"

"More than three minutes, less than five," I answer easily, shoving away the memories of a black gloved hand holding me beneath the water as I thrashed. Until my lungs burned and I was moments from breathing in the water, just to make things end. Then dragging me out, letting me take a single breath before starting it all over again. "I can probably give a more exact number, if you need it?" It's been a long time since Bruce was timing that particular skill, and even longer since his grip on the back of my neck enforced those long minutes. I haven't kept up with holding my breath every day and feeling the  _burn_ of my lungs as I hit my limit, so my time has definitely shortened.

He shakes his head. "It should be more than enough. You'll need to hold your breath and be completely still while the needle is inserted, but that shouldn't be too hard for you. I'll numb the area with anesthetic firs. It shouldn't hurt much more than a sharp pinch."

"There's no need," I say, heading him off as he steps back from the table. "Like I said, pain doesn't mean much to me. Go ahead if it will make you feel better, but there's not much practical sense to it." Even excluding my pain tolerance, most drugs don't do much to me. It's unlikely that the level of anesthetic he'll put in me will actually do any good. Bruce made  _very_  sure that I was never going to be taken down by something as simple as a sedative; a tolerance for pain killers was one of the side effects.

He frowns, the fingers of one hand flexing as if he wants to hit something. "It will. You'll need to lie still for at least an hour afterward for the hole to close. That's the shortest recovery time of anything I can do. Acceptable?" I nod, and he busies his hands smoothing down wrinkles in his black suit. "I don't have what I need in here; I'll be right back." He retreats from the room fairly quickly, tension obvious even beneath his suit.

I fix my gaze on the door as it hisses closed behind Luthor's back, and settle in to wait.

* * *

"Mmmm..." The sound, though noncommittal, also has a definite downwards tilt. So, bad news it is. Luthor spends a few more seconds leaned over his desk before gathering a few scattered papers into one hand and straightening up, turning to me. "Do you want the specifics?" he asks, and after a moment of consideration I shake my head.

"I probably wouldn't understand them," I admit. Although I can name most joints, bones, and muscle groups in the human body by their proper titles, that intricate knowledge doesn't extend to the details of internal organs. Generally, you either hit one of those or you don't, there's not much middle ground. But being Bruce's right hand required me to be able to inflict damage with the same precision that he did, unless I wanted a personal demonstration of what his instructions actually meant and how I'd carried them out incorrectly. "Just the conclusions would be best."

Luthor sets the papers back down on the desk, brow furrowed in a slight frown. "Alright. The damage, both fresh and scarred, is severe, but there's no trace in your system of whatever chemical caused the initial injury. The deterioration you're experiencing is a completely natural process, and there's not much that can be done to stop it, let alone fix it."

"Why not?" I ask, repressing the sickening twist in my gut. Wait for the answers before reacting. Wait for all the facts.

"To put it in simple terms, once certain areas of your lungs are destroyed they don't regenerate, they only scar. Yours are pretty far past any kind of recovery. I'm not an expert in chemical injuries, but I'd guess that's been the case since you breathed them in. There's nothing I know of that can force that regeneration, and lung transplants are one of the riskiest, with a dangerously small success rate. If there's anything that can be done it won't be science. Your best chance is to seek out a metahuman with healing powers, or some sort of magic."

Restorative powers? Regardless of whether they're criminals or heroes, any metahuman with a power that useful is kept under serious guard. Or, has other powers that are dangerous enough they've secured their own independence. I could hunt one down, threaten their life — or someone else's — to get their cooperation, but... Honestly I'm probably not in good enough condition to fight a metahuman, though the odds rise and fall depending on who surrounds them or what other powers they have. Of course, I was trained to fight metahumans. It's true that most of them rely too heavily on their powers to have any real chance once you counter whatever those are, but that doesn't mean it's an easy fight. It might be something that I can't pull off with my current level of injury.

When it comes to any of them helping me willingly, it's the first problem I faced. I have too much blood on my hands for most heroes to ever consider helping me, and most villains would never risk antagonizing Bruce. That isn't even taking into consideration that everyone but a select few believe that I'm dead. I'm fairly sure I can trust Luthor and the Jokester's group not to spread that information, and Bruce would  _never_  let it be known that his supposedly dead weapon had actually betrayed him, but anyone else? I don't know most other heroes, or villains, well enough to know if they'd keep it to themselves. If my existence gets out things could go very badly, very quickly. Not only will Bruce set everything else aside to make sure I suffer a very painful, very public death as soon as possible, but I could find myself on the receiving end of a lot of hunting.

After all, I have insider information on Owlman, and that's not just a rare resource, it's a nonexistent one. Identity, safe house locations, weaknesses, tactics, I have it all. That makes me absolutely invaluable to anyone looking for  _any_  advantage on my ex-mentor, which is just about everyone. Maybe one of them might be willing to trade healing for information, but I doubt that they'd then let me go. I have no particular desire to have to escape another person's leash.

I don't know that much about magic, or magical items. Bruce never taught me. I knew enough to categorize the few that Bruce kept, and enough to counter the few magical adversaries I went up against. He never taught me anything more than absolutely necessary. Bruce didn't much like magic, and only used it when other paths had failed him. Without access to his databases, I wouldn't even really know where to start to begin researching what kind of magical spell I might be able to use as a cure for my lungs. There are a few items I can think of off the top of my head that might be capable of doing it, but not only are they either extremely well guarded or lost, but I wouldn't have the faintest clue how to properly use them. It's a very risky thing to use any kind of magic without the right knowledge or skill. Then we get back to the near impossibility of finding anyone who would be willing to help me with them.

"So, I'm dying?" I only ask for the sake of clarification. Luthor's frown gets a little more pronounced, he nods, and I distractedly echo the nod. "How—" I cut off, taking a moment to close my eyes and force down the swell of dangerous emotion.  _Dying_. Everything I did under Bruce's wing was to survive. Everything I endured was with the knowledge that someday, somehow, I would escape. "What's your estimation of the time I have left?" I ask, shutting myself away once again. I don't  _want_  to feel this, I'd rather go back to the emptiness of being a weapon.

"It's hard to say," Luthor hedges. "With the rate that you've described, maybe a year? But you'll lose most ability to breathe before that, and most of your tolerance for any kind of physical exertion. If you stop all strenuous physical activity  _now_ , you might survive a while longer."

Might. Even that would mean giving up all pretense of fighting Bruce, training Jason, or being anything but a normal human. I can't do that.

"I appreciate your assistance," I inform Luthor, standing from my perch on the side of one of his machines. I can think about this on the way back to Gotham; it's a long walk, after all. "Let me show you the holes in your security." I said I would, didn't I? The results being unpleasant news doesn't influence that earlier promise.

"Talon," Luthor starts, and the anger catches me mostly by surprise.

"That's  _not my name_ ," I snap, with the dangerously icy tone I learned from my creator. Luthor tenses. I am  _not Bruce's_ , not anymore. I'm my own person, I have an existence outside of the name he gave me, I'm not just Talon. Even if no one else can see that, I'm  _not._

My hands go to my pockets, Luthor reaches for the gun in his suit in reaction, and I fling my stored capsules to the floor the moment I have them in my hands. I never go anywhere without a store of weapons. They explode with sharp cracks of sound, spewing smoke into the room. I freeze my breath in my lungs as I use the cover, and leap to the top of a filing cabinet against one wall. The ceiling panel above it pops out of place with a firm upwards push, and I'm inside and pressing it back into place before the lab's fire suppressant systems click into effect. It's the same way I got in. It's the last step of Bruce's path.

I let my lungs inhale, viciously suppressing the cough I can feel building at the back of my throat. It's a reaction to the smell of smoke clinging to my clothes.

One time, just  _one_  fight with my creator, and my four years of freedom suddenly don't mean anything. Here I am, back under the shadow of his control. Every hitch of my breath, every cough, and every red spot of blood is a reminder that Bruce created me. I was foolish to forget that he always had the power to kill me as well.

I probably spend longer in the vents and hollow spaces of LexCorp than I should, but I need the time to steady myself.

I'm dying, and that's not really an outcome I considered. I mean, I knew I was going to die, I accepted the reality of that a long time ago, but I always thought it would be relatively fast. A bullet or blade that finally hit its mark, or one mistimed dodge against a deadly foe. I never considered that I might get to stare death in the face and watch it slowly approach me. That I might get weaker every day, just waiting for the moment that it all ends. How long will I be capable of the acrobatics that have always defined me? How long will I remain able to spar with Jason?

Oh,  _Jason_. A year won't be enough time to train him, not correctly, and I'm not even going to get that full year. He's going to find out about my health problems soon enough, it's just an inevitability. Maybe I can hide it for a while, but eventually something will slip past my ability to restrain it, or he'll notice something is off about me and figure things out himself. Then what? Even considering our shared background, this isn't the kind of injury you can just ignore or work around.

Maybe there's some way I can pass Jason's training off to someone else, before I lose all ability to do it myself. There aren't many people I've seen stand up against Bruce in single combat, but I know there must be at least a few. They don't need to be as good as our ex-mentor — finding someone as perfectly skilled as Bruce would be a long, dangerous, maybe even futile task — but they still need to be fairly impressive to justify my initial lies. I'll need a reason to step away from training my replacement personally, but actually I'm fairly sure that won't be hard. It's something I've already considered a time or two.

Bruce taught me nearly everything I know, so if there's anyone that's uniquely qualified to counter my personal combat styles it would be him. I can teach Jason what I know, but that's only passing on the same techniques, and Bruce knows them better than either of us. It's the same reason that fighting Jason isn't particularly difficult for me; I already know all his ingrained reactions. I know nearly everything he plans to do before he does it, barring a few less refined moves that must be leftover from his time on Gotham's streets. He might string his movements together in somewhat different patterns than I do, since he doesn't have the same acrobatic skill that I use to buffer the transitions, but I still know each move and sequence of strikes individually. He doesn't have the same experience that I do, so all that really defines our differences is me using the techniques better than he does. Bruce can do the same thing to either of us, and since I'm pretty sure he never taught me everything he knew he will a _lways_  be able to outmatch us.

Exposing Jason to different styles of combat would be invaluable for both of us, especially if he has any real plans to go up against Bruce. He'd need a different teacher to have any real chance, which means we'd have to seek out someone that has the kind of skill we have in a style that's different than our own. That's an easy way to brush off any questions about why I'm stepping away from training Jason personally. It's something he'll understand.

I'll have to run through my list of heroes, and villains, to see how many might have the skills necessary to serve as a substitute. From there I'll have to narrow it down into who might be willing, able, and keep silent about it. It probably won't be a very long list, if there's anyone on it at all, but most heroes will be more willing to help Jason than me. If I present it as for his sake, rather than mine — which is absolutely true — the chances of finding someone definitely increase. He might not be a child but he's still younger than most of the heroes out there, and it's a proven fact that being a traumatized youth is pretty much a free pass when it comes to what heroes are willing to forgive. I never sought that forgiveness out, and it's too late now, but I could have. Twenty isn't an age that counts as 'young' anymore. It probably won't make any real difference to them that I was six when Bruce got his hands on me, and it probably won't matter that six isn't exactly an age when I had any chance of resisting him. As far as most of them are concerned, I should have sacrificed myself instead of becoming what I am. I should have chosen to die. Not that any of them will ever actually phrase it that way.

They can believe what they want; I'm not that self-sacrificial. Not as a six year old child and  _definitely_  not now. I know how the world works, and whatever they might think all that a hero complex earns you is death. I'm proof enough of that, aren't I? I escape, I live a life for four years, but the second I involve myself in hero affairs — the  _second_  I try and save someone else — I end up on the receiving end of eventually fatal injuries. All it took was one promise to help, and one try at sparing someone my kind of existence.

That's just... Life's not fair. I've  _never_  thought otherwise, but this is a bit cruel even for the usually ironic twists of 'karma,' or 'destiny.' I should have known better than to try and be anything but a weapon, let alone a  _hero_.

But I suppose there's nothing else left for me to do, is there? If I'm dying then everything I did to survive doesn't count for anything, and all my justification for everything I've done over the years is gone. Everyone I killed, all the pain I endured, the bits of myself I left behind, it was all pointless. What is my life worth anymore? The span of a year? Why  _not_  sacrifice it, why  _not_  use it for someone else's benefit? I can't do anything for myself with it, not with how far along the track to death I already am, and even if I could I gave up wanting anything but to be away from Bruce a long time ago.

I guess, this is for Jason. I lost my chance at life while trying to save him, why not finish what I started? Maybe I can't do it all with what little time I have left, but I can at least pass him into the hands of someone that can. Jason might still be capable of being something apart from a weapon. He might even be able to shake the name of 'Talon.' If he chooses a new identity for himself then there's no need for anyone to ever know what he used to be, he can still escape that. Jason isn't connected to the name as thoroughly as I am.

And me? I'm not anything more than a killer, playing at being something I'm not.

Why did I ever choose to help Jason to begin with? I could have killed him. I never had to know his name, I never had to take that mask off his face. I could have gone back to my life, unrecognized and unnoticed by Bruce, if I hadn't let sympathy influence me for just that one moment. If I hadn't recognized him as another person who knew what our shared name meant, and as another innocent kid that our creator had molded into a weapon. He never had to be anything but one more human I added to the count of my victims, but now...

I don't have anything left but him. I haven't had family or friends for over a decade, and now I don't even have a life that I can call my own. I spent  _so_ long planning my escape; once I was out that seemed like all I'd ever need. No one else had power over me, I could call every moment mine, and I didn't have to live with the constant knowledge that I was one wrong step away from earning myself pain. It might not have been a life by other people's standards, but it was a life by mine.

I think I might actually understand heroes now. The ones, like the Jokester, that become heroes after their lives are ripped away from them. When your whole world has been taken from you, what do you have left to lose? What reason is there  _not_  to throw yourself into a crusade against the person that took it?

I'm not insane enough to go up against Bruce, especially not with the condition my lungs are in, but at the least I can make sure Jason stands a fighting chance. If he decides to fight Bruce then I can make sure that he does it with the best store of skill and information that I can give him. Why  _not?_  Apart from a long list of corpses, and some scarred heroes, Jason is all I have to show for most of my existence. The only thing I'm almost proud of. He's not fixed — he's not  _close_  to fixed — and he might never be, but at least he's free now. I can do my best to make sure he stays that way.

However, I'll hide this from him right up until the day this injury kills me if I can. He needs time to settle, and figure out exactly what he's going to do with his future, before I pull my support out from under him. It's best if he doesn't find out before he's decided what his life is going to be. Jason's too emotional to disregard my condition as a factor, and I'd bet he's far too involved to just accept that I'm dying either.

I'll run through all the metahumans I know of with healing powers, of  _course_  I will, but the simple fact is that I'm not someone that anyone will want to help. The chances I'll find anyone willing are dismal at best, and the risk needed to accurately confirm it would be close to suicidal. Extremely so, even considering I don't have much time left to sacrifice anyway. But if anyone does end up being able, willing, and discrete about it, I'd be willing to trade them a lot of information for it. Not the pieces that I know would start wars — like revealing Bruce's identity — but smaller things. Like tactics.

After dealing out so much death as Talon, I stopped considering life as anything precious. Maybe it's more valuable than I'd really thought, or maybe certain people's lives are worth more than others. The certainty of my own approaching death brought that into perspective for me. Selfish, perhaps even hypocritical, but I never claimed to be anything else. It's difficult to care for anything but my own survival after being raised by Bruce; my empathy — is that even the right word? — for Jason is a serious anomaly.

Things would have been so much simpler if I'd just killed him when the choice was laid in front of me, but it's too late now. I'm not sure I even could anymore, not without good reason. I'm a conditioned killer, but I don't like the thought of killing Jason, not even in the more painless ways that I know. It's one extremely obvious sign that I'm slipping. I'm losing my ability to distance myself from, well, everything, and I'm starting to lose it just as I discover the fact that I'm dying. What perfect timing.

I'll have to move things along faster now. Get Jason a teacher as quickly as possible, someone that he can form some kind of connection with before I die. At least he'll have  _someone_  to lean on then. I don't think he really dislikes the Jokester's group, but they have a lot of history with the name Talon, and a lot more with Owlman. It isn't a great place to get away from those names.

I've got a lot to plan.


	6. When Owls Should be Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, I have been building a timeline for Stray!Verse for the last three days, and I am utterly exhausted. Too exhausted to put together all the information to post the prompt I have up, so you get this instead. Sorry, but enjoy!
> 
> This chapter just has standard warnings for basic awful things that Owlman did. Underage neglect, abuse, brainwashing, and forced murder.

Grayson's acting weird. It's not real obvious, and I don't think any of the heroes have noticed, but there's something that's not quite right about him. He's... distracted? Maybe?

He's been this way since he got back from his day trip to Metropolis, about a week ago. Just a little  _off_  from his usual behavior.

He's not  _quieter_ , exactly (it'd be hard to be quieter than just  _normal_  Grayson), but when he used to be quiet he was always watching people and studying them. Now I catch him staring at the walls or the floors, looking kind of disconnected from reality. He always notices me looking, but he just feels like he's not really thinking about anything related to the world around him. It's weird. He's still sparring with me, having conversations, everything he did before that trip, but it's all... shorter. When we spar his takedowns are sharper, efficient in a way that's almost scarily ruthless, and he's started favoring more defensive tactics and forcing me on the offense. It's like fighting a completely different person; like a less sadistically inclined Owl. He's started letting conversations die, too. He used to make the effort to continue chats, but not now. Awkward silences have become a common thing.

Honestly, it's freaking me the hell out.

When the Owl started getting distant usually it meant he was planning something really nasty, and I should stay the  _fuck_  out of his way and start praying whatever he was thinking about didn't involve me. I've got no idea what it means when Grayson does it, but it can't be good. He's starting to feel dangerous again; I've lost any sense of what he's going to do next. I don't like it. There's a lot of stuff I know he learned from the Owl, so maybe this is something else?

I didn't  _truly_  think I was safe here — I know better than to think  _anywhere_  is really safe — but I didn't think the threat was going to come from Grayson. In fact I was pretty damn sure that if I had anything resembling an ally, it was him. He already had his chance to kill me. Hell, he's had a thousand. What could have changed in Metropolis that suddenly he might be thinking about it again? I don't  _know_ , and not knowing why someone that  _feels_  dangerous is, especially someone as lethal as him, is completely screwing with the sense of security I'd  _stupidly_  started to dare to think about. Nowhere is home, and  _god_  after the Owl I should  _know_  that.

I barely sleep, and what little I get isn't much more than nightmares. The memories are screaming and shoving for attention in my head like a mob against police barriers, and it's never been this hard to ignore before. Even if I'm never going to forget it all — the Owl branded it deep enough into me that's  _never_  going to happen — they're not usually biting at me  _all the time_. But since Grayson's feeling all 'soulless-machine-killer' again, like he did when we first met, he's forcing me to live with a lot of paranoia. All my Talon instincts are running on overdrive, and no matter how much I want to I  _can't_  separate those from all the memories of how the Owl taught me them. I get one, so I get the other.

Grayson hasn't realized how fucked up and twitchy I'm getting (unless he  _has,_  and he really  _is_  going to kill me and just doesn't care;  _fuck_ ), and that's making me really sure that he's  _really_  out of it.

I blink burning eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Apart from the faint breaths of the first Talon — in his own bed, about ten feet to my right and against the opposite wall — the room is silent. I don't mind silence, actually it's kind of comforting, but not when there's so many voices clamoring for attention in my head. Silence could be the best thing in the world. There was  _nothing_  that was as calming as knowing that the Owl was gone, and I could shudder my way into something like unconsciousness for a bit, but sometimes it could make the voices in my head louder. It would let them drown out my own thoughts, especially when I was in so much pain that I welcomed a death I  _knew_  would never come. That's the kind of silence this is. The kind that presses down over your face like a smothering hand, daring you to try and break free before you drown in the blackness.

_"Worthless."_

I close my eyes tightly, till patterns and faint afterimages swirl in the darkness, and take in a slow, deep breath. I was never any good at meditation, didn't have the 'calm center' for it, but at least the breathing counts force me to focus on something — a _nything_  — other than the deep voice echoing in my head. The mocking words with that touch of dry sarcasm or cold fury, depending on his mood.

Get told something enough times and you start to  _believe_  it, even if it's  _not true_. Even if I was damn sure at the start that it was all lies, it got harder to keep thinking that way in the subconscious haze of drugs. Even harder the fucking  _thousandth_  time I heard it.

My breath shakes a little on the exhale, and I grit my teeth.

_"Nothing more than a weapon."_

Jason. My name is  _Jason_. I'm eighteen, black-haired, blue-eyed, and I had a  _life_  before the Owl took me. He  _can't_  make me forget what that was like, he could  _never_. It didn't matter how far he crammed his ideals down my throat, or how long he tried to hone me into his fucked up idea of a sidekick. It hurt,  _oh_  it hurt, but I could never give him that last scrap of  _me_  that I clung to. Maybe in some ways I'm more fucked up than Grayson is because of that. I held so tightly to the idea of  _me_  that it just became the same thing as fighting.  _Me_  became the anger, the only thing I had to fight the fucking  _terror_  that the Owl was so good at bringing out of me.

I wasn't this bad before, right? I mean, sure, I wasn't exactly innocent or  _nice_  before the Owl took me off the streets, but I don't remember being  _this_. I don't remember leaping to anger the way I do now. Jason used to be good, didn't he? Am I just irreparably fucked up now? Is the Owl always going to be there, in every  _fucking_  thing I do?

 _No._  I'm free; the bastard has no damn right to my mind anymore. I have my own mind, my own feelings, and I'm not Talon anymore. I'm not  _his_.

I could have a family again, with the Jokester and Harlequin. They care, that I  _know_. Maybe not enough to forgive me if they  _ever_  knew the kinds of things I've done, but they  _do_  care. They actually see me as a person. Not just another orphan, not as a  _fucking_  weapon, but a real person with real emotions. That's something I used to be treated as. Not by my parents,  _fuck_  no, but some of the people who lived in Crime Alley with me actually cared. The ones who kept me alive after my two parental excuses were gone.

A smile, a place to sleep, and a hand to stitch me back together after I ended up on the wrong side of a gun or a knife. It wasn't much, but it was better than always-absent Dad and drugged-off-her-ass Mom. She died, I  _still_  don't know where he left to, and I was officially a Crime Alley orphan. One of the dozens of kids living off of Gotham's mercy, yeah, but specifically the ones  _there._  Going anywhere else was begging to get your ass kicked, by cops if not by the other groups of kids. The famous neighborhood might be a hellhole of a place, but the actually  _decent_  people who live there are some of the kindest you'll ever meet. They have to be, to live in a place like that and still have some kind of community.

Those are the ones that made sure I didn't end up bleeding out on some gritty concrete sidewalk.

_"This is what you were meant to be."_

I wonder how many of them even noticed I was missing, and how many cared? It's not like there was any shortage of hungry kids in those streets. It probably wasn't anything but a  _relief_  to have one less. Did they assume that I'd died, or that I'd just finally gotten out of there? It was probably the latter; there were a lot of optimistic idiots in that place. People vanished all the time, and sometimes you heard from them again, sometimes you didn't. Occasionally, you found them in a shadowed corner, blood still staining the asphalt around their corpse. It's just what happened.

I knew death long before the Owl introduced me, but he was the first one to make me part of it. He was the first one to make me take the knife I always carried (not being armed in Crime Alley was a death wish, even as a kid) and put it through someone else's throat. Legal wasn't always enough, and  _yes_ , I'd done some things I wasn't proud of before that, but I didn't hurt anyone. I was fast enough to not get caught, usually, and I was never good enough to take on the people that did manage to catch me. Taking a little pain stopped them killing me, victory enough as far as I was concerned.

It's why I thought I could handle whatever the Owl was going to do when he first took me. Pain wasn't new to me, and I thought I knew enough to endure whatever beating he had in mind. It was  _stupid_ , I know that now.  _Stupid_ , and  _arrogant._

The first kill the Owl forced me to make reintroduced death and I on a  _personal_  level. My kidnapper's clawed fingers holding my throat in one hand and my hand in the other, both more than tight enough to bruise. I fought as hard as I knew how, just to open my hand enough to drop the knife in it, the one I pulled out to lunge at  _him._  He was waiting for me to do it, I know  _that_  now too. Maybe it really wasn't my fault, but it was still  _my_  knife, in  _my_  hand.

Through the throat is a messy way to kill, if you don't know what you're doing, and I really,  _really_  didn't. The Owl held me down in the pool of blood under whoever the hell my victim had been, and I thrashed. I was hysterical as the red covered my face, my hands, and I had  _sick_ ,  _vivid_ , flashbacks to mad green eyes and a frighteningly still, black-uniformed figure in its own crimson lake. I remember thinking that it was some fucked up way for Owlman to get his vengeance on the Jokester, by killing a street kid under his nose. The truth was much worse.

What does it even matter if that first death is mine to claim or not? The others are. Every  _single_  person that I killed, or tortured, so that the Owl would leave me alone. Because sometimes —  _sometimes_  — I just couldn't take any more that day. Sometimes I  _knew_  that if he went at me any more,  _right then_ , I was going to break in all the ways I  _couldn't._  Those days, it was better to take another life than face more of the Owl's brand of persuasion. No good options, no right choice, just do what you had to. Survive one more day.

_"Talon."_

I jerk off the bed, flicking my eyes open and getting to my feet. I can't stay in this damn room. I need to do something, move, get my thoughts to focus on anything but the memories.

I leave the room, the metal door creaking faintly on its hinges as I slip through and then ease it shut again. I don't bother to put on any extra clothes; the pair of sleeping pants will work just fine.

The base is quiet; no one's awake at an hour like this. It's the time of sleep for Gotham's less-than-civilian's; somewhere in the middle of the day. The Jokester's gang does most of their work at night, or in the early dawn hours. The police patrol too regularly during normal people's hours for anything under the table to get done, and that's probably at the Owl's demands. It's  _so_  obvious. The police are never in the shadier parts of Gotham during the night unless the Owl  _wants_  them there. He's got them under his thumb, somehow. They can't  _all_  be corrupt, but clearly enough are that it doesn't matter if anyone tries to fight. Jokester's gang wanders during the day, but they don't do anything really big. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, they  _must_  have their own contacts in the police department. I saw a few chases between them and cops, but not  _nearly_  as many as there should have been. Someone  _must_  be telling them patrol routes.

Their timetable is just like the schedule of my bastard kidnapper. Work gets done during the night, and there's no chance to sleep until the middle of the day. Not that it matters; night and day don't have any real meaning in this underground prison. My only real evidence of time passing is the clocks scattered around the safe house, apart from the ticking of my internal timer. Though after the years I spent as Talon, and the sense of time that was driven into my skull, my internal clock happens to be pretty  _damn_  good. I learned how to keep track of time inside the Owl's cave, I can do it here.

The doors to where the heroes sleep — the ones that actually stay here — are cracked open, and I catch slices through the gaps of lumps under sheets and brightly colored hair as I pass. Right now it's just the Jokester, Harlequin, Croc, and Ivy that are down here, the rest are scattered to their own hiding places, or off on various 's only down here because the Owl set fire to her latest garden, and she was kind of upset about it.

I don't know why the hell she even tries anymore, it doesn't make  _any_  sense to me. That's the definition of insanity, right? Trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result? I mean, not really, or Arkham would be full all the time, but it's definitely a crazy thing to do.

Damn heroes. How can they still think there's any chance of them winning in a fucked up city like this? Even without the Owl, Gotham's a messed up place; it's  _way_  past any kind of saving. How can they live in its slums and not  _know_  that? It would be easier to take all the good people and put them in a different city than to actually make Gotham a decent place. They're fighting a useless battle, and they're doing it with their stupid morality rules too. How do they expect to stop the villains if they won't take them down,  _permanently?_  If the Jokester just  _killed_  the Owl — I know he's had a chance or two — everything would be over. No one could replace someone like him, and  _he's_  the one that keeps the Crime Syndicate together. Without the Owl to keep them in line, or be the only one to lend a hand, they'd fall apart.

If there's no end then it's all  _useless._  A never-ending fight where if the Owl gets the upper hand just  _once_ , they all die. Just like that. Who  _chooses_  odds like that?

_"You're a killer."_

The main room is barely lit, only a few faint lights left on to even try and combat the darkness. It almost feels comforting. The metal floor is cold under my feet, but the silence feels less pressing in the open space. I shake my hands out, looking at the shadowed tables. Six of them — built of plastic and metal bars — in the industrial style used in school yards, or prisons. The ones with attached benches. I've been in both places, not that I was part of the community either time. Talon ended up a lot of places he had no damn business being. They're not bolted down like I remember those being, but they're heavy enough that it would take a lot of force to move one.

I could manage it.

I take a deep breath, manually forcing the muscles in my shoulders to relax as I roll each back individually. The left cracks. I take a half-step backwards before reversing the motion and continuing it, throwing myself forward into a handspring. I propel off my hands, and then my feet as I land, and launch into a midair somersault that I curl with, landing solidly on top of one of the plastic tables with a heavy thud. I straighten a bit from the ending crouch, eyeing the distance between the tables for a moment. This is nothing like the obstacle course I trained with as Talon — it's a lot less deadly, to start with — but I'll have to make do with it. That course might have been a source of serious pain for me, but I miss the challenge of it. Nothing got my heart racing like trying to get through that damn thing before the timer caught up with me and the obstacles I was supposed to already be past got electrified. Not enough to seriously damage, but enough for a serious shock and a hard landing on the mats below when I lost my grip.

Even if the Owl never said anything,  _I_  was always proud of myself when I managed to beat the times he demanded. It was already easy to be excited, running that high on adrenaline, and it wasn't a big jump to pride.

I shut my mind down, devoting my attention to the bunch and release of muscle as I fling myself through the air. I keep it pretty basic, not trying any of the moves I don't know absolutely by heart. I'm not trying to push it, I'm not trying to fix or learn anything, I just want the workout. I want to lose myself in the movements so the voices in my head shut the hell up. I throw in martial arts after a bit, turning the acrobatics into the dance of combat, into some kind of fight on top of platforms. Shipping containers, or rooftops, or on top of cars in a parking garage. There's no shortage of elevated areas in Gotham; I've fought on most of them.

Sweat gathers on my skin, eventually, and I take my imaginary fight to the ground. The exertion feels good, even if it's not anything close to the kind of exercise that could actually tire me out. Endurance is one of the main things I learned from the Owl's training, mostly as a side effect of all the other combat skills. It wasn't just being able to outfight anyone else, and get across Gotham on nothing but a grapnel and acrobatics, I also had to be able to do it for  _hours_  on end. Stopping to rest, even pausing, was something I learned not to do  _real_  quick. Even if my muscles burned so badly that I could barely stand, or my breath whistled raggedly through my lungs, I  _didn't stop_. The Owl didn't tolerate it, and it didn't matter what pain I had to endure to keep going, he'd deal out a lot worse if I stopped. It's kind of ridiculous how much pain you can ignore with the threat of more hanging over your head.

Not that pain was the Owl's only way to hurt me. It was the most common, but he's  _nastily_  inventive. If you teach someone to take pain, it doesn't exactly work as a punishment anymore unless you get  _really_  serious about it. There were a handful of things that I'm pretty sure he used on Grayson, but also some I was pretty convinced the bastard made especially for me. What a fucking honor.

"Don't raise your arm that high."

I flinch, spinning automatically into a crouch as I flick my eyes around the room to find the source of Grayson's voice. His pale skin is his only giveaway, and even that's mostly hidden by the shadows in his chosen spot. He's in one of the darkest areas of the room and by one of the tables, sitting on the edge of it. Fuck, I  _hate_  that he's so damn quiet. I guess when you're taught by the guy who can pull off that silence in  _metal boots_ , you pick some things up. I'm not silent like them, but I'm still a lot quieter than any of the heroes we live with. Terror of the night and all that bullshit.

It takes me a second to actually process his words, and then another to think back through what I was doing and match them up with the right strike. Oh, yeah, that would have left my ribs very,  _very_  unprotected. I straighten up, wiping a hand over my forehead and flinging the collected droplets of sweat to the floor. He watches, silently, a lighter shadow among the others.

"How long have you been there?" I ask, and he slips off the table and to the floor with only the faintest whisper of sound as he settles onto the metal. He's barefoot, like me, but unlike me he's got on a dark grey t-shirt in addition to his loose pants. It's what he usually sleeps in. The shirt is thin fabric, stretched against his chest, and I don't think it serves any real purpose but to hide his scars. He doesn't seem to care about them, but it unnerves the heroes. I guess they don't like the reminder of how bad he really had it.

"I followed you out here," he answers, and I wince. Fuck, was I really  _that_  preoccupied? Usually I can just  _feel_  when Grayson's around, and missing him for this long is just kind of... pathetic. Not to the heroes, but to people like us? Oh yeah, it's sad. "Would you like to spar?" he asks, stepping forward into one of the slightly more well lit areas.

I hesitate. A fight would definitely help with the tension, but with the way Grayson is right now? It won't be anything but frustrating and unsettling to be reminded of his weird behavior, and I don't really feel like getting slammed to the ground a couple dozen times. "No," I answer, sharper than I mean to. Grayson's head cocks slightly to one side, and not being able to see his eyes in the dim lighting freaks some part of me out. It shouldn't, there's never anything  _in_  his eyes anyway, but I can't shake the feeling I'm missing something important that I'd know if I could see and study them.

He doesn't come any closer, but I can feel him studying me. "Difficult night?" he asks eventually, and I have to force my hands to stay still, not curl into the fists they want to be.

"Yeah," I admit, fighting the urge to grit my teeth as the voices slip back to the edge of my awareness. I raise a hand, raking it back through my damp hair, shutting my eyes for a second. "Do you remember the box?"

The  _fucking_  box. It was there when the Owl first dragged me into his world, so Grayson  _must_  have been in it at least a few times. It was just a metal box, small but not uncomfortable for the body of a teenager, with a locking side that couldn't be opened from the inside. The air holes were small, and hidden by extra sheets of metal to prevent any light coming in. The dark wasn't a problem (it's really  _impossible_  to be afraid of the dark as Talon), and it was big enough that it wasn't claustrophobic to start with, but the nasty part of it was the voices that played inside. A couple dozen pre-recorded phrases from the Owl. I knew what the fucking point was, even the  _first_  time, but that didn't make it any less effective. Those phrases are burned into my damn mind.

Fucking Owl and his  _conditioning_. If the bastard wasn't in a mood, he drugged me first. It wasn't  _as_  bad when I was floating in the haze, when the point was to implant the ideas in my subconscious, but when he was feeling nastier it was worse. No drugs to soften the slowly growing panic and frustration. It didn't get any easier with time, and if anything it actually got harder. At first it was impossible to tell time inside of that metal, and it felt like days that I got locked in the damn thing, but I learned. After that, when I counted in the back of my mind, it was even worse. Knowing the hours that I was stuck inside it, and trying to figure out some kind of  _pattern_  to it, nearly drove me mad.

"Yes," Grayson admits quietly, and the complete lack of tone, or body language, frustrates me. I want to think that I'm just missing it in the shadows, but I  _know_  it's a lie. He's not showing anything. "After awhile it was a place to meditate, for me."

This time, I can't stop my jaw clenching down. "Of  _course_  it was," I hiss through my teeth, taking half a step back. "I bet he  _loved_  that." The Owl must have been  _so_  pleased to have a weapon that slipped so easily into what he wanted. Fucking  _perfect Grayson_  and his damn talents, it's just not  _fair_. I take another step, turning my back on the first Talon despite the instincts screaming that it's a bad idea,  _suicidal_. He's  _dangerous_. "Did he  _praise_  you?" I bite out, over my shoulder.

"The only way Bruce showed approval was a lack of pain," Grayson says, "you know that."

"No, I  _don't!"_  I spit, fighting the urge to raise my voice. The last thing either of us needs is the damn  _heroes_  joining this conversation. I turn on him, glaring at the shadow of his form. "I don't know what that's like,  _Grayson._  I was  _never_  what he wanted, not  _ever_. He just wanted another  _you_."

All you have to do is look at how we talk about the bastard.

To Grayson he's  _Bruce_ , it's an easy familiarity that makes me afraid the two of them are closer than I want to think about. To me he's the Owl, and the thought of calling him by anything more personal  _terrifies_  me. I didn't know who he was under the mask for over a year, had no  _idea_  that my prison was under the famous Wayne manor, and after that long I knew better than to think a name made the Owl any less dangerous or any less  _vicious_. I did a lot of stupid shit that got me in a lot of trouble, but calling him by his name was something I never had the insane courage to try. I still don't.

"Would you really rather have been me?" Grayson asks quietly, still no trace of  _anything_  in his voice, and the shadows still hiding his face. "All you had to do was break, Jason. Why didn't you?" The question hits home, turning the spiteful jealousy on my tongue to curls of ashes.

Why didn't I?

Because of a thousand different bruises, and the dozens of innocent people that died (or  _so much worse_ ) by my hand. Because of a hundred different moments where the Owl dismissed me as nothing, as  _less_  than human and not even worth his  _fucking_  attention. Because of everything he took from me, demanded from me, that I will  _never_  get back. Because I  _hate_  the Owl, and I'm  _terrified_  of him, and I haven't got a  _clue_  which is stronger.

Because my name is  _Jason,_  and no amount of pain could ever make me forget that.

"I couldn't," I answer eventually. "I just, couldn't." I flex my hands, clenching them tight for a moment. "What's going on, Dick?" I ask, pointlessly trying to find his eyes inside the darkness. "What happened in Metropolis?"

He's silent for a few moments, then he gives a small shrug. "It was a long trip," he says with a noncommittal tone, "I did some thinking." It doesn't feel like the truth, but he continues before I can call him out on it. "I'd like to find you a different teacher." My breath catches in my throat, and I can feel my eyes widen.

"What?" He  _can't_  really mean that. I'm not the best student, I  _know_  that, but I didn't think I was terrible enough for him to give up on me this quickly. He's got five years of training on me as Talon, and more as an acrobat, so he  _has_  to know that it's going to take a while for me to be anywhere close to his level of skill. The Owl never killed me, and as  _sick_  a recommendation as that is it's  _something_ , right?

He moves until he's standing in front of me and I can finally see his eyes, his face. I'm growing, and he's barely an inch taller than me now, but I'm still looking up at him. I'm still the second, the younger, the  _replacement_. I don't think that's ever going to change. "You want to fight Bruce, don't you?" he asks softly, and I flinch before I can really think about the question.

Do I? Do I  _really?_  I've thought about it, a  _lot_ , and I've fantasized about finally getting to take the Owl down and pay him back for all the  _hell_  he put me through. But actually doing it? Actually going after the supervillain? That's one hell of a scary idea. Even with help, even with  _Grayson_ , I'm not sure it's possible. I've seen a lot of people go up against the Owl, but I've never seen someone really  _win_  against him. The Jokester's gang escapes, holds him off, or makes him decide that he'd rather not fight that many of them, but as far as  _I've_  seen they've never actually won a fight by  _beating_  him. The Owl knows how to pick his battles.

"I don't know," I admit. "What does that have to do with this?"

He studies me, gaze flicking briefly up and down my frame. "I suppose, precisely, it doesn't. Either way, Bruce will keep hunting you. All I can teach you is what he taught me, and he's always going to be better than both of us at it. If you want any real chance to fight him, you need training in something different. You'll need a different teacher."

 _Oh._  Yeah, alright, that makes sense. It isn't something I'd thought about, but then I wasn't really thinking about the practicalities of taking the Owl down. It hadn't really connected in my head that  _badass_  as Grayson is, it was the  _Owl_  that made him that way. Of  _course_  the bastard would never pass on enough of his skill that we'd have a chance of beating him, he'd  _never_  train us  _that_  well. I have  _some_  understanding of the Owl's mental patterns when it comes to fighting, and I'd bet that Grayson has a lot more, but there's no  _way_  we know him  _nearly_  as well as he knows us. We're never going to stand a chance playing his game, so the only option is to change the rules. Learn something different.

"Like who?" I ask, resisting the urge to cross my arms. Partially because it will betray how uncomfortable this whole conversation makes me, but more because Grayson still feels  _off_. My training insists that I can't afford that added second it will take to react. Not against someone like him.

His shoulders lift in the tiniest shrug I've ever seen, and his head tilts slightly to one side. "That's what I've been thinking about. You might know more recent candidates than I do, what are your thoughts on possibilities?"

My eyes narrow, and I match his tilted head. If I didn't know better I'd think I was being tested, but there's no way. Grayson would just  _say_  it if he was testing, wouldn't he? Well,  _maybe_. But then again, when we're sparring, he doesn't always  _warn_  me before he tests how I react to new things. I've gotten some decent bruises out of those moments, but also a few faintly satisfied looks. Pretty much worth it for the fucked up, attention-craving part of me.

I scrub one hand over my face and then back through my hair, trying to accurately remember the massive lists of names, skills, and powers that the Owl had me memorize. I was never very good at that, and I haven't had to think about it for months now. "It has to be someone that can match him," I start slowly, "and would be willing to help.  _And_  won't turn us in to anyone else. Probably a hero, better option would be one of the  _Owl's_  heroes. They'll have the biggest reasons to hate him, and help us. They'll also have the biggest grudges against  _us,_  but they might overlook that for the chance to screw with him."

Now, who in our bastard kidnapper's list of direct enemies fits all of that criteria, and who'd be most likely to help?

"Ra's," I decide, raising my gaze back up to meet Grayson's. "Ra's and the League of Shadows. They've got the skill, and he's less morally stuck up than most of the other heroes. He might ignore what we've done, enemy of my enemy and all that." Grayson's mouth flickers in a small smile, and he nods.

"Yes, that was my conclusion. Any interest in a trip?"

I can't help the small grin, but reality pretty quickly drives it back off my face. "We'd have to get out of Gotham," I remind him, "and get to Ra's. That won't be easy."

I mean, obviously Grayson knows how to get out of the city — he  _just_  did it — but that's just one person, and he's got practice at it that I don't. Two  _must_  be harder, and who knows if I can go the same way he left? Even after that, Ra's' main base is on a different  _continent_  and it's not like we can just take a plane. Even if I  _had_  any kind of passport, or identification, our faces would get picked up by the Owl's facial recognition programs. I didn't leave Gotham much as Talon, and if I did it was with the Owl at my side, usually on his jet. I know Grayson must be good at it — I know the amount of work he did solo, and outside of the city — but my strong suit isn't travel. I know the theories, but I've got no practice at them. The Owl didn't usually trust me to work on my own.

Unlike most heroes, Ra's doesn't really have a hiding place. So it's not  _finding_  him that's the problem, it's just getting to him. From what I remember of the Owl's history lessons, the League of Shadows was created, by Ra's, to protect a series of semi-magical pools called Lazarus pits from anyone that would use them for selfish gain. Like, you know, the Owl. They destroyed most of them, but apparently they tie into the balance of the world or something, so they couldn't just get rid of  _all_  of them. I know there are a few scattered around the globe, but as far as I know my bastard kidnapper doesn't know where they are. He'd already be ruling the world if he  _did_ , right?

They're supposed to heal pretty much anything, even act as a fountain of youth, and Ra's is  _proof_  that they work. He's centuries old, which is also probably why he's a bit less morally uptight than most other heroes. If you live that long, I guess the nasty truth of the world has to get to you at  _least_  a little. He's not afraid or unwilling to kill either, from what I remember of watching him and the Owl fight. When Ra's had weapons, there were definitely some strikes he made against the bastard that would have been life-threatening even if they didn't just outright kill him. He was probably the one that the Owl was the most cautious around, to the point that I remember the bastard actually told me not to go head to head with the hero. Apparently he was  _very_  convinced that I wouldn't stand any chance, even as a distraction. Which, actually, makes me pretty fucking terrified of Ra's. If the damn  _Owl_  won't even use me as a  _meat_ - _shield_  for this guy, the hero must be seriously dangerous. Would he have actually killed me, if I'd fought him?

Would he really help the trainees of his arch-villain?

Well, Grayson thinks he's our best shot, and I have to trust that the other Talon knows Ra's better than I do. He's had more experience.

Grayson's lips twist in a tiny smirk, close to the Owl's but different enough that it only makes my heart jump for a second. "I can get us there," he says, the words confident even if his tone is flat. "There's a few ways out of Gotham that don't fall under Bruce's supervision, and international travel is easier than you'd think, even under the radar. Especially, actually."

Right, of  _course_  Grayson would know both ways. He was official. There  _had_  to be times when the Owl took him places as his 'Richard Grayson' persona, but of course he did a lot of travel as Talon too. I guess it  _would_  have been easier for him to just sneak aboard something, considering his past, than to have to get through that much public attention. I suppose that's  _one_  thing that I got easier than he did. I never had to pretend to be anything that I wasn't, or that the Owl hadn't  _made_  me into at least.

"Do you think he'll actually help?" I ask, and Grayson pauses.

"He should help you," he answers after a few moments, "and if that requires me leaving, that's fine." I almost make a nasty comment, but physically bite my tongue to stop it.  _I'm_  not alright with him getting thrown out, but I guess there's not much I could do to stop it. Heroes are hypocritical bastards, I didn't even need to watch them around Grayson and me to know that. "We'll have to tell the Jokester," Grayson says, then adds, "and Harlequin."

I wince. Alright, not looking forward to that. Harlequin is trying really hard to be some kind of a mother figure — I'm not too thrilled with that, considering  _my_  mother — and the thought of her reaction to the both of us leaving to go to a different continent is unpleasant to think about. Since it's for help learning how to fight the nastiest supervillain out there, maybe a little  _more_  than unpleasant. The Jokester's usually decent about giving us our space, especially Grayson, but Harlequin is kind of  _aggressively_  mothering. It tends to bounce off Grayson, just like everything else, but she hasn't given up yet.

It's not like she could  _stop_  us, not like  _any_  of them could. Unless they told the Owl what we were going to do, but there's no  _way_  they could be that, well,  _vicious._  I'm pretty sure neither of the two heroes would hurt me if they could avoid it, though Grayson's a bit more of a wild card. I guess knowing the basics of what goes into the training of a Talon gave them a heavy dose of sympathy for both of us. I don't think either of them would put us back in the Owl's hands unless innocent lives rested on it, and there was no other option. Which at least is something.

"They won't be happy to see us go," I comment, and Grayson's head dips a bit.

"The rest of them will."

I snort. "True."

As much as the Jokester and Harlequin have accepted at least me, and  _arguably_  Grayson, into their 'family', the rest of the heroes associated with them  _really_  haven't. They don't treat me with outright hostility, mostly, but they definitely don't consider him or me as one of them and Grayson gets the nastier edge of it. Of course, I don't have that much history with them. I've got two years of intermittent fighting, but I didn't help  _create_  half of them like Grayson did. There's a reason that most of them don't have any legitimate family or even known associates, let alone  _friends._  Grayson did a lot of things to them that they'll probably  _never_  forget, or forgive. They don't realize, or maybe don't  _care_ , that none of it was really his choice. Then again, they didn't get the up-close view of Grayson's escape, or my rescue, that their two leaders did.

A story about 'the poor Talon kids' probably isn't enough to sway, well, pretty much  _anyone._  In fact I'd bet that a lot of the heroes, even if they'll  _never_  say it, probably think that we deserved it. Fuck the fact that we would never have done what they hate us for without the Owl's fists behind us, or that we've got death sentences on our heads  _because_  we risked escaping. They only know whatever they've  _assumed_  from comments we've made, and I'd bet it's nowhere close to the truth of it. Then again, I don't think anyone would ever actually  _believe_  what the Owl did to us without having seen it firsthand, or with proof. I guess all we'd really have to do is show off Grayson's scars or mine to give them that. I've got less of those, but I can only guess at the comparison between his bone damage and mine. I don't think I  _want_  to know.

"They won't be awake for hours," Grayson points out, and I nod, ignoring the faintly uncomfortable feeling of sweat drying on my skin. It's not like that's a feeling I'm not used to, and I've ignored things a lot nastier than sweat. Blood, for one. "Can you sleep?" Grayson asks.

I hesitate. "No clue," I settle on, with a dry laugh. I feel  _somewhat_  better, now that I at least know why Grayson feels like he does — or at least what he's  _telling_  me is the reason — but it's not a magical fix. I'm still on edge, I've still got voices in the back of my head. Quieter, but still  _there._  I've got no  _idea_  if I can make them shut up enough to sleep, even though I know the stages of exhaustion well enough to know that if I don't sleep soon it's going to start interfering with my ability to function. It's a hell of a thing, being traumatized.

"Would it be easier if I stayed out of the room?" he asks, and I flick my gaze up to meet his. It's serious, though I don't know why I was expecting anything different. Even if he  _was_  feeling something else, I'd never know unless he wanted me to. "It's me, right?" he continues. "You've been twitchy since I got back." So he  _did_  notice. "I assume it's me that's making you feel that way. If you think you can sleep better without me in close proximity, I can leave you alone. I don't need much sleep, and I can schedule it around you without any trouble. Would you like me to?"

I stare at him for a few seconds. Alright, yes, it might be easier to sleep if Grayson isn't around, and my trained instincts aren't  _freaking_  out over his weird feeling, but the thought of driving him out to let me sleep easier makes me feel like a dick. No pun intended,  _seriously._  I don't even know if it would work anyway. At this point it's not just  _him_  screwing me up, it's the memories, and those are harder to deal with.

"How about you just tell me what's going on?" I finally say, unable to help the bitter hint that steals into my words. "Maybe I can't tell when you're  _lying_ , Dick, not all the time, but something's not right. It's not just you wanting to find a different teacher, so why don't you just  _tell_  me?"

He studies me, and then, to my complete surprise, gives a little huff of breath that almost sounds like a sigh. "Jason," he starts, with a hint of resignation to his tone, "I can't."

"Wh—" His hand jerks in a sharp strike through thin air, and it's enough to cut me off so he can keep speaking.

"There are things I know," he says, holding my gaze, "that you're better off not knowing. It's not a case of thinking you can't handle them, or anything similar to that, it's just things that would make you worry pointlessly. They don't affect the current situation, and there isn't anything you or I can do to change them. Please, leave it at that."

The one word, 'please', stops me more than any of his pretty empty reassurances. The Owl beat that word out of me a long time ago. He  _hated_  the weakness inherent in  _any_  kind of a plea, and  _despised_  the idea that his weapon would ever sink that low. That can't have changed between Grayson's time as Talon and mine, he  _must_  have just as many bad memories attached to that word as I do. Even if there's no tone attached to it, or expression, it must shake him at least a  _little_  to use it. It  _must_. I know that it makes me just a little nauseous even thinking about saying it.

"Promise me," I demand. "Promise that whatever it is you're keeping from me, there's absolutely  _nothing_  I could do to change it."

It must be something that might affect me, or he wouldn't be  _bothering_  to hide it. I'd guess it's something to do with the Owl — what else could worry me, let alone  _him?_  — but if Grayson is sure I don't need to know, it can't be anything massive. The only part that confuses me is that he learned whatever it was in  _Metropolis._  What's over there that could have anything to do with the Owl? Unless it's something bigger than just him. The Crime Syndicate, maybe? But what information about them, that affects  _us_ , could ever be considered as 'not changeable' by Grayson? We're not normal  _civilians_ , we aren't helpless under the powers of metahumans. We can change things.

"I promise," Grayson answers easily, and I bite back the reservations that insist he's  _still_  not being honest. This is  _Grayson_ ; if he was totally honest, or upfront about everything, I'd have to worry about the world ending.

You keep secrets as a Talon, it's just what you  _do._  If people don't need to know things, you don't  _tell_  them. I'm almost certain — and the last bit is just ingrained distrust of  _everything —_  that he doesn't want to see me hurt or dead. That's about the highest level of trust I can give to anyone, though he is a  _bit_  below where I rank the Jokester and Harlequin. They're predictable, and I can manipulate them if I want to.

Manipulating Grayson? Yeah,  _not_  going to happen. I'm more likely to end up on the receiving end.

"Alright," I agree. "So, we tell the heroes when they wake up?" Why wait? It's not like this half of a plan is going to change with time, unless something terrible happens. Not in any way that will matter, at least. Details and specific ways to travel are one thing, but the 'get to Ra's' bit of it is pretty much set.

"Sounds good." Grayson pauses for a moment, watching me. "Do you want me to leave you alone, to sleep?"

I shake my head. "No, it's fine." Either I'm going to be able to sleep or I'm not, and at this point Grayson's presence isn't going to change anything. It's not like I really  _need_  to sleep anyway, not for a while (even though I  _should_ ), and once I reach that point my surroundings won't matter. The joys of sleep deprivation, oh how well I know them. "I'm going to shower first, though." Having the  _choice_ , I try not to sleep in my own sweat. Being really clean is a nice feeling.

The Owl enforced hygiene pretty regularly, but a lot of times the choice was between a real wash or sleep, and I made do with rinsing off more times than I can remember. So long as I didn't reek, and I wasn't visibly gross, the Owl didn't care. I was pretty careful to  _never_  get that kind of attention. I liked the privilege of real showers, instead of being sprayed with cold water from a hose. That sucked like pretty much nothing else. Once I knew he was Wayne, and once he was through with the first bits of training me, I was allowed to use the showers and supplies up in the manor. Assuming no one was expected, and he wasn't pissed at me for any reason.

I can appreciate how wonderful those showers were — money gets you the nicest things, after all — but the memories are kind of soured by how much blood went down those drains. Mine, sometimes, but a lot of other people's too. A rinse never managed to clean all of it away, so there was almost always at least a hint of blood, even if I wasn't freshly coated in it. They were also pretty much the only place I could ever be alone. Paranoid as the Owl is, I don't think he taped his own showers. At least, I never saw any  _evidence_  that he did. Still, I  _thought_  I was alone; that was the important part.

Grayson gives a faint nod and half-turns away from me. "I'll see you back in the room."

I watch until he vanishes past the doorway, and then I let my gaze drop away from the entrance to the unlit corridors. Alright. Shower, attempt to sleep, and then face the heroes tonight. After that, I can talk to Grayson and figure this out. If he's been thinking about it then he must have considered all the ways in and out of Gotham, he must have  _some_  kind of plan for travel. Dodging the Owl should be fun, but at least I'll be out of Gotham. That'll be a nice change.

Maybe things will actually go well this time.


	7. Branching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! So much work, so little time, so few stories ready! Anyway, have another chapter of this in the meantime! So, back to Dick's PoV, and just some standard warnings for this one. You know, references to child abuse/brainwashing/torture/etc. Just classic Owl stuff. Enjoy~!

Ra's' stronghold is about as impressive as I remember. I've been here a few times before, though apart from a single instance I've never actually entered the manor. The collection of ornate buildings is on the top of a mountain, sheer cliff on all sides, and those walls are difficult to scale even with the right tools. Especially difficult if it's an attempt to do it without being detected. There's an entrance at the base, for trucks of supplies and such, but the tunnel leading up is a minefield of traps. Ra's' security is good, even by the standards of a hero, and it's geared especially towards countering Bruce's combination of high-tech devices and stealth tactics. It's difficult enough that my ex-mentor didn't usually bother with it unless Ra's was specifically attempting to interfere with something, and he never brought me along on those trips.

The one time I entered Bruce was only there to talk, and Ra's let us in the mansion without a fight. I was really only there to guard my creator's back, and to provide an additional incentive for the hero to stay peaceful. I was eleven, and Ra's usually didn't treat me with true hostility.

Ra's usually traveled to Gotham if he was trying to stop Bruce from doing something, so the few times that I was here I was sent to confirm that Ra's was actually in residence, and not in our city (usually a sure sign that Ra's didn't have a stake in whatever event was occurring). Ra's exists in a strange stalemate with Bruce, one that's unique to their relationship. He's much less aggressive than most other heroes, prefers to manipulate events behind the scenes, and Bruce seemed to be more than willing to reciprocate the same kind of attention. It was generally Ra's' lackeys, various members of the League of Shadows, that my ex-mentor ended up fighting.

Ra's was a much rarer sight in Gotham, and Bruce preferred it that way. He was one of the few heroes that my mentor tried not to engage unless it was necessary. In fact, Ra's was pretty much the only hero that I saw not only consistently provide my creator a challenge in combat, but even manage to sometimes exceed his skill; it was always questionable which of them would win an engagement.

The scattering of moves I know that  _didn't_  come from Bruce are almost all ones that I learned watching, and fighting, Ra's. Though the couple of times that I actually ended up fighting the hero myself — since Bruce tended to be careful about taking him on personally — were short-lived, painful, and always ended pretty definitively in my unconsciousness. If I hadn't been as young as I was he probably would have killed me, but instead he seemed to always treat me with a faint sense of pity. I think he had more of a clue about what Bruce put me through than the other heroes I regularly faced off against.

Of course, that didn't stop him taking me down. If it had, I wouldn't respect him as much as I do. For a hero, Ra's is willing to do a lot of questionable things.

Jason makes a wordless exclamation from beside me, and I turn my head to look at him. He's staring up at the manor with an expression somewhere between awe and exasperation, his shoulders pulled in a bit against the cold. "How are we supposed to get in there?"

It's not snowing, not at the moment, but the results of the last snowfall are still spread thickly on the ground and the temperature is extremely low. We've both got thick jackets, but it's still biting even through the several layers of fabric and padding. I've been fighting the conditions since we got here; my damaged lungs aren't reacting very well to the cold air or the added strain of the hike out here. It's straight out painful to breathe, and I've been biting back the urge to cough pretty much constantly. Nothing I can't handle, yet.

Alright, so arriving at a mountain stronghold (in Europe) in the middle of winter probably wasn't an absolutely wonderful idea, but I didn't have the time left to make waiting for spring a viable option. Who knows how much physical capability I'll still have left at that point?

"Through the front door," I answer, raising a hand to point down the hill we're on to where the road in winds around the base of the cliffs, towards where I know the currently out-of-sight entrance is. "There's a tunnel that loops up to the top, through the interior of the mountain." Ra's' base is pretty much as far from civilization as the hero could get it (while staying in the country), so we had to hike a decent ways to get here in exchange for staying off the main road. Neither of us can afford to stay in populated areas for any longer than necessary, not even in a remote place like this. I know the route to hike, but that didn't make the trek much easier.

"And what, we just walk up to whoever's on guard? There are guards, right?"

Jason's never been here. In fact, from what he's told me, he's only been out of Gotham a time or two, and never without Bruce breathing down his neck. Our mutual ex-mentor kept him on a pretty short leash — clearly not trusting his obedience outside of our city without supervision — and didn't loan him out to other villains like he did me.

"Yes, there are guards. Three at the entrance to the tunnel, more stationed inside at irregular intervals. Assuming it's the same as I remember." I wouldn't put it past Ra's to have changed everything after the time I entered. He's healthily cautious, and that pays when you're fighting someone like Bruce. "If we announce ourselves, and Ra's agrees to at least talk, they should escort us up."

He glances over at me. "You've been in?" he asks.

"Once," I confirm, "with Bruce. He wanted information, so they talked."

"Talked?" Jason repeats, sounding incredulous. "The Owl just walked up, had a conversation with one of his most dangerous heroes, and walked back out? Just like that?" I nod, starting down the hill, and he follows me. "I knew they respected each other, but  _wow_ , that's something else. He didn't drop any surveillance or anything?"

"He did," I correct, "but it was destroyed before we even got back to the jet. He didn't seem surprised." Bruce had barely even reacted, actually. The fact that Ra's had not only suspected that my creator had dropped bugs, but that he'd found, deactivated, or destroyed all of them — within the ten or so minutes it had taken for us to be escorted back down the tunnel and to Bruce's jet — seemed to be completely expected. Dropping them in the first place was apparently a 'just in case' effort, rather than something that was actually intended to yield any results.

"That's insane," Jason comments, and I can see him shake his head, right at the edge of my peripheral vision. "Even the Jokester doesn't take surveillance out  _that_  fast."

For this particular skill, that's actually a good comparison to make. The Jokester has had way too many years of practice, and even though he's not the detailed observer that Ra's is, he knows precisely what to look for. Still, usually the devices that Bruce has scattered around Gotham don't get discovered unless the Jokester is wandering around specifically looking for them, and even then he never finds everything. He hasn't isolated the frequency that they use to broadcast the recordings back to Bruce's main computer. I'm fairly sure that Ra's both has, and even keeps up with the at least monthly change of it. Granted, the Jokester isn't the most tech based hero, and he's pretty constantly short on any kind of money as well. Ra's has neither of those drawbacks.

We get to the bottom of the hill, and soon enough we're on the main road. The asphalt is hard even beneath the faint layer of powder covering it. The sky is a light grey all the way across, but enough of the sun's warmth is getting through that most of the snow lying on the road itself has melted off to the sides. It's likely that it only had to melt a faint layer, what little hadn't already been swept away by Ra's' guards the moment the snow stopped falling.

From down here the cliff of the mountain that holds the hero's base is even more ridiculous, a sheer drop that would make even the most experienced climbers nervous. I've never climbed it, though I don't know if the same holds true for Bruce. I could do my spying from the hills and other mountains that surround Ra's' stronghold, and trying to get up something like that cliff by myself would have been kind of suicidal, considering who would have been waiting at the top.

Bruce never demanded it, so I took the easier ways.

The guards see us long before we're close to them, since the road doesn't hug the cliff face, and the guns the three men are carrying — rifles — get pulled up to ready positions. Jason falters for a moment, falling out of my peripheral vision, but I don't slow. I remember this particular dance. I do see one guard reach for and then speak into a radio a ways before we get close enough to be within earshot, but they don't call out to us until we're about twenty feet away.

"Hands where we can see them," the one to our left calls out. I oblige, halting on the road. I don't raise my hands over my head, but I do hold them a foot or so out to each side. Enough that they can see that I'm not holding anything. Jason is at the wrong angle for me to be able to see him, but I assume he follows my lead. "State your business!"

"We're here to speak with Ra's," I answer, raising my voice enough to carry over the distance separating us. My throat complains at the almost-a-shout, but I strangle down the cough. Not  _now_. "He's not expecting us," I continue, heading off the next question, "but he'll be interested. I guarantee it."

The hoods to both of our jackets are pulled up, but it's unlikely that any of the guards would know my face well enough to connect me to the name of Talon even if they could see it. "Your names?" the same guard demands.

"Richard Grayson and Jason Todd." It's probably equally likely that those names won't mean anything to them — these look like standard guards, not members of the League of Shadows — but they might mean something to Ra's. I was never quite sure if he knew that Owlman was Bruce, but it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he did. If he knew that then he'll know my name, and even if he didn't Ra's can't possibly have missed the fact that Richard Grayson is dead. I was a publicly famous figure, and he monitors Gotham well enough to know that my name was on headlines a fair amount.

This should get his interest.

The guard lowers one hand to his radio, speaking into it in hushed tones. I have to assume that someone answers him, because he drops it again after a few moments and steps aside to the small, enclosed guard post beside the tunnel entrance. There's a truck parked just inside, against one wall, and the tunnel itself fades into darkness pretty quickly. No internal lighting. One more thing to make it difficult to infiltrate Ra's' manor.

The guard turns on some kind of monitor suspended outside the station — at a height of about five feet on the closest corner — and though it flickers briefly and a small light on the bottom glows blue, the screen itself stays black. He steps away, pointing to the space in front of the monitor. "Step forward," he commands. "Right here, and pull back your hood."

I obey — the guards move to keep me at a good distance away, rifles still raised — and I can hear the soft crunch of snow underfoot behind me, as Jason follows. I flip the hood of the jacket back against my shoulders, halting at the indicated spot. There's a few moments of silence, and then the monitor clicks on to a feed of Ra's. He looks up at me from it. One eyebrow raised, with a faint smile on his lips. It's just his head and shoulders that fill the camera, and he looks just the same as I remember. Maybe even a touch younger. Less grey in his hair, definitely.

" _Grayson,_ " he greets, as he gives a small nod. " _It is not every day I get visited by a dead man."_  His voice is a bit tinny, but I assume that's an effect of whatever microphone he's using. Or maybe a result of the less-than-impressive speakers on the monitor.

"Ra's," I answer, echoing the shallow inclination of his head. "I've got a proposal for you."

" _And I will listen_ ," the hero says without hesitation, " _I merely wanted to make sure of your identity first. My captain will escort you both up, please, feel free to relax._ " I'm almost positive that Ra's knows I'm Talon, considering this easy acceptance. The screen blinks back out, and the guard — I assume he must be the 'captain' — approaches.

"Guests. If you could climb into the back of the truck, please." He doesn't sound real friendly, and his rifle stays halfway raised, but that's to be expected. Anyone showing up here without any apparent method of transportation should be treated with extreme suspicion, that's usually a trademark of either heroes or villains. The superpowered ones, anyway. If he knows who I am, his caution is warranted. If not, it's still simply a good policy.

He walks over to the other two guards as Jason and I slip past him, to the parked truck. I glance over to see them talking, in a volume much too low to carry, before hoisting myself into the bed of the military-style vehicle and onto the right side of the built-in bench. Jason slides in beside me.

Even under his jacket, I can see the tension in his shoulders. The most obvious sign is the way his hands are clenched down over the metal seat so tightly his knuckles are starting to turn white. His hood is still up, but I don't need to see his face to know that something isn't right. Jason might be angry a lot of the time, but that usually doesn't translate to this kind of tension. We're fighters, we know better than to lock muscles we don't have to.

"Relax, Jason," I say softly, watching the guards past him. "Ra's keeps his word; at the end of the day he's a hero. We're not active threats, he won't harm us."

Still assuming that he's the same Ra's that I remember. True, it's not likely that a few years could have changed him much given how old he already is, but it's always best to be cautious. Something could have happened that slipped under my radar; after all, I missed Jason's entire  _existence_  as Talon. Who knows what other events got past my monitoring?

I truly don't believe that Ra's will kill us, or even hurt us, without giving us a chance to peacefully leave first. Even if we are both past the age where we're noticeably young, and therefore past the age where heroes feel like they have to give us a pass. Even Jason is starting to look like an actual adult, now that he's settled into what's probably the last of his growth spurts. He's the same height as me, and I'm fairly sure that he's not quite done yet. I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up as tall as Bruce.

"Not worried about that," Jason grits out. "Just feels different now that we're here."

Two of the guards head for us, so I don't get the chance to ask him exactly what that comment means. The captain joins us in the back, on the opposite bench and as far away as he can get in the small space, which is just outside the range of a kick from either of us. The other one circles around to get inside the truck, starting it with a low rumble. The last guard stays at the tunnel entrance. He heads inside the enclosed space of the guard's post and locks himself inside.

The tunnel brightens as lights abruptly click on, not blinding but fairly bright, and the truck starts forward with a small lurch. The captain watches us both, rifle still in his hands but not pointed directly at us. It's probably the closest thing to a show of trust he's done so far. Granted, we're two young adults in snow jackets with no visible weaponry or gear, and we're not in costumes. The fact that he isn't dismissing us as threats, and even seems to be more wary because of that, shows that he's got some practice at this. He knows better than to count us out just because of what we look like. I wouldn't expect anything less of one of Ra's' subordinates.

The ride's long, a gradual but persistent right turn, and only the building pressure (and then pops) of my ears prove that we're actually gaining any altitude. The lights turn on as we approach the next sections of tunnel, and click back off once we're past them. We pass several groups of guards, both patrolling and stationed inside posts, but none of them do anything more than step aside to clear the way. I can feel Jason's tension beside me, and I brush my shoulder against his in a subtle reassurance. It seems to work at least a little bit.

Eventually there's lighting that isn't their artificial ones; weak sunlight shining in as the exit comes into view and the road levels out. The truck pulls onto a section of gravel not unlike the half-circle driveways you might see on the more expensive houses in Gotham — like Wayne manor — and slows to a stop. The captain slides off the bench and jumps to the ground, the rifle rising a touch as he settles.

"Out of the truck," he demands, and I have to lightly nudge Jason to get the younger ex-Talon moving. When we're both on the ground the captain raises one hand from his weapon to point towards the manor's main door; about fifty feet from us and up a few steps. "Head to the door."

I nod and lead the way, stepping to the side and then slowing a bit so Jason is walking beside me, as opposed to following. "Is there anything I should know?" I ask, in a voice that's nearly inaudible. My replacement's eyes flick briefly to me.

"You mean did I do anything to Ra's?" he asks. His tone is aggressive, nasty, but he gives a short, sharp shake of his head. "No. The Owl never let me near him."

That's understandable. With Ra's' level of skill, Jason wouldn't have been anything more than a momentary distraction. The hassle of extracting an unconscious Talon wouldn't have been worth the brief advantage in nearly any situation. Better to set him up against guards, or less impressive members of the League of Shadows, than risk Jason being detrimental. It was probably easier with me; in the early days I was little more than a child, and Ra's had to be careful to avoid seriously hurting me. As I grew I gained skill, and in our later fights I could provide at least a minute worth of distraction. It was less necessary to keep the two of us apart.

That still doesn't explain Jason's mood, however.

"Then what is it?"

"Doesn't matter," he instantly murmurs back.

I stay silent, and only continue watching him for a moment. I don't have the right to demand answers from him, not unless they affect the situation. After all, he's trusting me to keep my secrets, so the least I can do is extend the same to him. He was trained as a Talon. If he doesn't think that whatever is causing him stress is important, or at least thinks that it doesn't matter right at the moment, he's more than likely right. Bruce taught us to prioritize, and to ignore a lot of things — including pain — for the sake of the job. It's not like that learned talent has gone away. I can trust Jason's judgment on things like this.

I glance back at the guard as we approach the double doors, and at his nod I reach forward to push the heavy wood open on one side. It opens to a large entry hall, nearly identical to how I remember it being, and Jason slips into the manor just behind me. The much heavier thunks of the guard's footsteps follow us. Definitely not part of the League of Shadows; he'd be about as silent as Jason if that were the case.

"The door on the right," the captain informs us, echoing my own memories, and I head for the indicated entrance.

I know the layout of most of the rest of the manor and its outlying buildings, from hours spent trying to spot Ra's through windows, but the door we're being directed to is the only room I've actually been inside apart from this main hall. The hero's study. Why he put it so close to the entrance, I don't know. Maybe it makes for an easier exit, in case of emergency? Ra's' list of enemies certainly isn't a small one, and it has quite a few impressive names on it. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about how the hero's mind works to make any truly informed guesses.

The door opens easily under my hand, but with a creak of hinges that I  _know_  is purposeful. I step inside the study. It's warmer, almost uncomfortably so, and I sweep my gaze briefly around the room. It's  _just_  how I remember it — I spent Bruce's visit cataloguing the room, since I wasn't actually involved in the conversation — with the exception of the books on their shelves; those are organized differently. Ra's is standing in front of his desk, a glass mostly full of wine on the wood beside him and the bottle beside it. Two other empty glasses stand beside it.

He meets my gaze, briefly, with light green eyes that border on grey. Then his gaze slips back over my shoulder. "Thank you, captain," he says in his aristocratic accent, "you may wait outside." Not the smooth, cultured tones of Gotham's societal elite — Bruce's natural accent, when he hasn't roughened it down — but something older, and harder. An accent that time has long since forgotten. I hear the door shut a moment later, and the lack of argument — or even hesitation — about leaving the two of us alone with Ra's is just more proof that the hero is as dangerous as we need him to be.

"If you could both remove your coats, please?" he requests, turning to retrieve the filled glass from the desk. His long fingers curl around the stem with familiar ease. "I will not ask that you discard your weapons," he continues, with a faint smile, "but I would prefer neither of you be directly hidden."

Of course I did bring weapons, and Jason has some too, but they're fairly minimal. Smaller things for the sake of caution, rather than anything big or deadly enough to be any use against someone like Ra's. I know that we don't stand much of a chance against him, especially not in his home, and I'm sure he knows it too. Still, his request — a carefully worded demand, honestly — is probably more for the sake of testing our willingness to cooperate than it is to actually strip us of any theoretical advantage. We'd actually be at more of a disadvantage if we kept the heavy coats on.

I raise my hands to the buttons, undoing them and shrugging the thick material off my shoulders. Ra's watches me until I toss the jacket aside, and then looks back behind me, raising one eyebrow. I hear Jason's unhappy huff of breath, but a moment later his jacket joins mine, and he steps up beside me. His blue eyes are narrowed and fixed on Ra's, mouth set in a clearly hostile line as one of his hands presses down on his right hip. I know he's stored one of the knives he has on him beneath the cloth there.

Ra's gives a slow nod, looking both of us up and down. "Grayson, it's good to see you out of hiding; and you must be Jason, it's a pleasure to officially meet you." Jason sucks in a sharp breath, and Ra's' mouth curls into another small smile, though he doesn't speak.

"You knew I was alive?" I ask, drawing the hero's attention back to me. He lifts one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug.

"I was all but certain, yes. Our ruler of Gotham may have been preoccupied, but your show had a few flaws and I like to think I know the Jokester fairly well. The kind of events necessary to motivate a murder like that? I would have heard. It was well executed, however. Congratulations on your freedom. Drink?" He motions to the glasses beside him, and I give a shake of my head. "Jason?"

"No," my replacement answers quickly, with a similar shake.

"Relax," Ra's says softly, taking a small sip from his glass between words. "Neither of you work for Gotham's King anymore, nor are you likely to ever do so again. Therefore, I have no inclination to take either of you out of play; you might yet be useful. Should that change, you will know."

Well, at least that's one card on the table. It's good to know that my read of Ra's was at least mostly correct. He knows who we are, and who we were, but doesn't seem to have any desire to kill either of us for it. At least that's a step up from the worst case scenario, where he puts both of our heads on platters. I can deal with a logical, rational hero; that's not so hard.

"Been talking to the Jokester?" Jason asks in one of his more aggressive tones, the one he uses when he's not really comfortable with the situation he's in. His hand is still over his knife, and he's still tensed for a fight, but I'm fairly sure it's all posturing. Unless Ra's does something overtly threatening, I doubt that Jason would be foolish enough to make the first move.

"Rarely. I have my own sources of information; I don't rely on my fellow heroes to keep me appraised of their current situations." That seems to startle Jason a little, and he eases as he straightens up, hand slipping away from his hip.

"If you haven't been talking to the Jokester, how do you know my name?" he demands, and Ra's smiles over his glass.

It's a valid question. Knowing that Owlman's second Talon betrayed him is one thing, or that we were with the Jokester, but Jason's name isn't a well-distributed piece of information. That knowledge is pretty much limited to just Dr. Thompkins, Bruce, Luthor, and the Jokester's group; or it should be. I honestly don't know who else the Jokester regularly talks to.

"I have my ways," Ra's answers smoothly, in a tone that clearly states that whatever 'ways' he has, he won't be telling us. "The two of you have a proposal for me, don't you? Please, sit. Make yourselves comfortable." His free hand rises, indicating the small couch and five armchairs arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. The hero waits for me to make the first move — a small dip of my head — before heading for the far side of the collection of furniture. He sits down in the armchair directly to the left of the fireplace.

I sit down in the chair opposite him, the heat of the fire almost painful on my skin. Jason stays standing between my chair and the one next to it. For a moment, I have to chase memories away. Jason is standing just where I did when Bruce and I came here, though he's taller than I was at the time, and I'm in the same chair as Bruce was, even if I'm not sitting in the same openly arrogant sprawl. It doesn't help my sense of deja vu any that Ra's looks nearly identical to how he did then, though his clothes are different. More layers, heavier; it wasn't winter when Bruce and I came by.

Ra's meets my gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. It wouldn't surprise me if he knew what I was thinking about; very little about how much Ra's might know would surprise me. "It is a long way from Gotham." The firelight plays over his face, in turns accentuating the lines on his face, making him look decades older, and then painting them smooth again so he looks younger than Bruce. It's in sharp contrast to the steady glow from the electrical lights in the room. "Whatever you have in mind must be important, if you risked leaving the safety of the Jokester's haven to come here."

"It is," I agree, trying to read some hint in the hero's expression. The moving shadows make it  _exceedingly_  difficult to get a fix, and my respect for Ra's slides a notch higher. Like the creak of the door, this can't be anything but an intentional advantage for him, hidden under polite courtesy. "I want you to train Jason, as—"

"Train  _us_ ," Jason breaks in, turning his glare briefly down at me.

" _Jason_." I back him down — even though it raises an uncomfortable knot in my stomach — with a hint of Bruce's cold tones, and he flinches to the side like I've struck him. How is it that even with everything I've done to get this far, that tiny flinch somehow manages to raise something  _dangerously_  close to guilt? A sickening clench of my stomach, a tightness in my throat that has nothing to do with my damaged lungs. No, I will  _not_  let Jason's reactions make me feel anything like this. This is  _for_  him. "I don't expect you to agree to train me," I say to Ra's. "I'm willing to leave, if you'll take Jason on."

"Even though it's  _hypocritical_ ," Jason spits, only cowed for a few moments. He meets my gaze when it turns to him. There's a hint of wariness in his eyes, like he expects my reprimand to become physical, but he still holds my look. "It  _is_ ," he all but hisses, defending his point.

"The two of you are clearly in perfect agreement," Ra's intercedes with a hint of humor, and both of us look over at him. "What makes you believe I would agree to train either of you?" he asks, and then focuses purely on my replacement. "Jason?"

"What are we, students in your  _classroom?_ " Jason counters, but under Ra's' unwavering look he snorts and braces his hands on his hips. More naturally this time, not reaching for hidden weapons. "Didn't  _you_  say it,  _hero_? We're not working for Owlman; the bastard would love to kill us both  _really_  slowly. Do you need some other reason?"

"He'd also love to kill Ultraman," Ra's points out, with a small smile. "If I helped everyone that Gotham's King wanted dead, I'd be doing favors for most of the world." Fair point. Bruce has a lot of enemies, true, but he also has quite a few allies that he'd kill in a heartbeat, if he thought he could get away with it. He'd personally enjoy causing most of their deaths, too. There are a few exceptions, but not many. Bruce just doesn't like people in general, especially not ones he doesn't have complete control over.

"He doesn't just want us dead." Ra's' gaze leaves Jason, fixing onto me with the same absolute focus. "Owlman is actively hunting us, we're direct threats to his reputation. I probably can't hide both of us, not for long, and we can't stay under the Jokester's protection forever. We'd be useful against anyone but the Owl, but with the way he's after us we're just targets."

"I'm not a  _target_ ," Jason interjects, bitterly, but I continue over him.

"If you train us, we have a chance." One of Ra's' eyebrows rises in skepticism. "You've seen my level of skill," I remind him, "and Jason's fairly close to me. The only reason we can't stand up against Owlman is because he taught us, and he knows exactly how we fight. That can be fixed with the right instructor."

"True enough," Ra's admits, idly swirling the wine inside his glass, "but why would I choose to be that instructor? Pardon my distrust, however neither of you have the best reputations. If I train you, what guarantee do I have that you will use those skills in a way I can approve of? Or that you will not return to your master? If you prove yourself valuable enough, he may be willing to accept you back into the fold."

" _Fuck_  you," Jason spits, before I can say anything a little more diplomatic, and then cringes back, his hands falling to his sides. A full-body flinch like he expects instant,  _painful_  retribution from Ra's. It's the kind of flinch he used to give whenever Harlequin touched him, and the one he still gives when I wake him from nightmares. His gaze is lowered to the floor, muscles stiff where they've locked. I'm moving to stand before I fully realize what my body is doing.

He doesn't look at me — an obvious declaration of fear, because Jason  _always_  challenges — until I reach out and touch the back of his right hand, letting myself move without fully understanding  _why_. His eyes snap up to mine, wary in a way that I know is ingrained, taught.  _Bruce's_  fault. My touch becomes a bit firmer as I slide into the space beside him, fingers slipping over the skin of his wrist. Some distant, suppressed part of me knows that it's not enough, at the same time as it's  _far_  too much. I've never touched Jason this deliberately without the wall of sparring or physical support between us, and I shouldn't be doing it  _now_  either. Touch isn't a comfort to people like us, it's just a prelude to pain.

"Jason," I start quietly, to ask what he's reacting to, but he shakes his head in two jerks that fight his rigid muscles. His eyes drop to my hand, staring at it like it's completely incomprehensible to him, and then, against  _everything_  that I expect, he loosens just a little. His gaze rises to Ra's. The hero is silently watching us, his face blank even with the skill I have at reading people.

"You can go to  _hell_ ," Jason says, just loudly enough to carry. His voice shakes, but I honestly can't tell if it's with fear, anger, or some mix of the two. "I would  _never_  go back to that bastard.  _Never_."

Ra's' glass clicks against the brick surrounding the fireplace as he sets it down and rises to his feet. Something in the way the light of the fire hits him, in the way that he's standing, makes him intimidating in a way I didn't see him as before. He's something ancient and darker than a hero should be, a titan in the way that Bruce, for all his vicious danger, never seemed to be. Even though his eyes are fixed on Jason, I have to swallow back the urge to step away.

"And if he offers you peace?" the hero demands. "If in exchange for your obedience he promises approval? Promises to  _never_  cause you another moment's pain? What then, Talon?"

"Then he's  _lying_ ," Jason snarls back, and his voice is solid again, like the direct confrontation is easier for him. "And if you call me by  _his_  name again I will  _make you bleed_ , whatever it costs me."

Slowly, deliberately, Ra's' head tilts to one side. "Is that so,  _Talon_?"

The sound Jason makes is inarticulate rage, and before I can stop him he rips away from my light touch. He pulls knives from their hidden places with an easy grace, one flies through the air at Ra's head, and Jason is at its heels. The hero slips to the side of the knife and meets Jason's headlong rush with an easy twist of hands — mostly hidden by the sleeves of his heavy, dark green robes — that redirects my replacement's momentum and smashes him into Ra's' vacated chair. The chair breaks under Jason's weight and he crashes heavily to the floor, rolling with the impact.

For a moment I'm convinced that Jason is about to be killed and I start to move forward — not fully sure whether I'm going to engage Ra's or stop Jason — but then the hero looks back at me and gives a small shake of his head.  _Wait_ , the hero mouths, and turns away from me.

I hold myself back, watching Jason fling himself uselessly forward again and again, his fury morphing to dragging frustration as time continues. Ra's mostly defends, turning Jason's strikes away into thin air, but the blows he does deal out in return are perfectly timed and ruthlessly delivered. I'm fairly sure he doesn't break anything — though the struggle itself is loud enough I might have missed the sound of snapping bone — but the damage leaves Jason favoring his right side, which with the pain tolerance we have is a heavy tell.

It feels wrong to be standing here; it feels familiar in a  _twisted_ way. I remember too many times when Bruce set me up against an opponent and then just stood and watched. Most times I won, sometimes I didn't, but he was always there at the end to pick apart every flaw in my technique. I don't ever want to take Bruce's position, and I don't ever want to do something like that to Jason.

We've never had the chance to fight together, but I don't believe in the idea of letting him have his own battles. First and foremost we were both trained as assassins, and that kind of training doesn't leave room for the naive ideas of single combat. Even though I know that Ra's isn't going to kill Jason, I still feel like I should be moving forward, getting at his back, drawing his attention so he has to defend against both of us.

I'm not sure that the nagging thought in the back of my head — that I want to help Jason because he probably trusts me at least enough to expect that I'll watch his back — is a welcome one.

Jason's eyes eventually flick to me, the question of why I'm not  _helping_  easy to read, and Ra's takes instant advantage of the distraction.

Jason's teeth clench together with a pained grunt as Ra's catches and twists his wrist at an angle that threatens to break it, automatic physical reaction bringing my replacement to one knee as his hand goes lax around the knife in it. It's his fifth knife, the others are scattered around the room. Within a moment Ra's has the knife swinging at his throat. I jerk forwards at the same time as Jason wrenches back, neck arching as he leans away from the slash. The blade stops. It's pressed against the underside of my replacement's jaw, holding him arched back with his wrist still captive and arm stretched tight. Nowhere to run.

Jason breathes in short, sharp bursts, blue-green eyes raised to the green-grey ones above him. His other hand is hovering to the side, ready to move if given an opportunity but frozen for the moment at the threat of the knife. My hands are poised above my own hidden blades, prepared to draw them if Ra's makes the  _slightest_  move towards slicing open Jason's throat. For a few moments the room is completely still, and then the knife pulls away an inch and Ra's speaks.

"Your anger has kept you alive for a long time, hasn't it, Jason?" Ra's asks, and Jason jerks futilely against the hold on his wrist, not reacting to the undoubtedly painful angle it twists when he pulls. There's  _something_  in Jason's eyes, but I'm too far away and his head is turned too far to the side for me to read what it is.

"That's not your  _business_ ," he snaps at Ra's, teeth baring.

"I disagree," Ra's says firmly, eyes narrowing a touch. "Anger can be used as a source of strength, or as a shield against those emotions that would weaken your focus, but it must be  _used_.  _You_  are allowing it to consume you, and that path will get you killed." He twists Jason's wrist further, until my replacement gives a low groan that sounds like it's pulled from the darkest depths of his chest and his eyes squeeze shut in a pained grimace. "If you do not learn to control yourself then you are little more than prey beneath his shadow, and I do not waste my time training  _prey_."

Jason's eyes pry open, and Ra's lowers the knife to rest at his side, out of my view. My replacement's gaze briefly flicks down to where the blade must be, but he doesn't move to reclaim it. I can see him swallow. "What do you want from me?" he asks, his tone just shy of demanding.

"That is not the question," the hero corrects, releasing Jason's arm. He pulls it inward, cautiously flexing his wrist before cradling it in the other hand, and doesn't move from his kneeling position. "What will you do with the skills I can give you? What is it  _you_  want, Jason?"

Jason's jaw clenches down, and he glances over at me. I straighten under his look, letting my hands fall away from the knives I never quite drew. Tempting as it was, I knew that I could never get them in my hands fast enough to stop Ra's cutting Jason's throat. Better not to be a clear threat. Better to hold out for the theory that the hero was just testing, and that he wasn't serious about the killing blow. There's a tightness in my throat that won't ease; it's a sensation that sprung up the moment Ra's held the knife against Jason's neck. It's distinctly different than the now-normal tightness that stems from my refusal to cough, or the brief sensation I felt earlier that stemmed from guilt, and I don't recognize it.

Is it,  _fear?_

I haven't felt fear strongly enough to affect me physically in a long time; I don't recall the last time that something scared me badly enough to even speed my pulse. The news of my impending death didn't scare me. I was shocked, mildly sickened, but I don't fear death or pain. Those are simple, unavoidable constants for me. Adrenaline is different, it's an instinctive rush of chemicals that can be harnessed for the purpose of a fight, and for me that has very little to do with fear anymore. When was the last time I felt real  _fear?_

Not while fighting Bruce, not while escaping him, I can't… I can't  _remember_  the last time I felt fear like this.

What am I afraid of? Ra's? No. I know Ra's is dangerous, I knew that long before I brought Jason to him. The demonstration didn't prove anything I didn't already know; it was for Jason's benefit, not mine.

Am I afraid for  _Jason?_  I don't think I've  _ever_  felt fear on someone else's behalf, why would I? Fear is, at its heart, just a reaction to the threat of being hurt. Feeling fear for someone else would imply that them being hurt would cause pain to me, and that doesn't make any sense. Why would someone else being caused pain hurt  _me?_

I know that Bruce used to threaten children to ensure that their parents obeyed his demands, and that it was the threat of losing their offspring that allowed him to manipulate them, but is this what they felt? This clinging, distracting tightness? Is this what normal people feel when someone close to them is threatened? Is this what I inflicted on others when I delivered Bruce's messages, or when I crouched outside the windows of people who needed to be reminded of the knife hovering over the people important to them?

Is Jason  _important_  to me?

No, that can't be right. This must be something else, some combination of my distracted mind and the obvious threat that Ra's represents. Why would I ever choose to give myself the kind of weakness that I've exploited in dozens of others? That's simply foolish.

"I want to  _survive_ ," Jason finally answers, meeting Ra's' gaze with narrowed eyes and a set jaw.

"And after that?" the hero presses, and Jason shakes his head and lowers his gaze for a second.

"I don't know,  _yet_."

Ra's watches him for several long moments, meeting Jason's eyes steadily, before raising his right hand. He turns the knife, holding it out hilt first to my replacement. "That is good enough for now. I will train you, Jason."

Jason's eyes flicker with what I can pin as surprise, but then harden. "What about Dick?" he demands, no give in his tone. Ra's gives a soft chuckle, but otherwise he doesn't even react to Jason's nickname for me.

"Your determination is admirable, but I have not decided yet. I would like to speak to him privately, if you wouldn't mind waiting outside with my captain. We have some history between the two of us."

Not much, and nothing I can think of that Ra's might be reluctant to speak about in front of Jason. We were never at odds the way that I was — am — with many of the other heroes, our relationship was always professional. I was doing my job, he was doing his. There was never anything more to our encounters than that, as far as I can recall. It is possible that Ra's saw things differently, but if he did I never got any hint of it.

"I  _mind_ ," Jason spits, once again angry, then glances at me. "But  _fine_." He reaches out, snags the knife from Ra's' hand, and rises to his feet. He doesn't stop to grab his coat, just heads for the door and slips out, tense but not looking back. It closes with a soft click, and I turn my full attention to Ra's.

The hero adjusts, straightening inside his shield of heavy robes and turning to face me. There's only the soft crackle of the fire. He studies me, and I let him, without either of us attempting to break the silence.

"You haven't told him, have you?" Ra's eventually asks.

"Told him what?" I hedge, refusing to acknowledge my suspicions of what the question refers to until the hero outright states what he means. Ra's' lips curl up at one side, very briefly.

"The fact that you're dying, naturally. Jason does not know, does he?" It doesn't particularly surprise me that he's aware of my health. He knew Jason's name, after all, and that's a piece of information that must have been harder to find out. Theoretically, if he knows what chemical was used to injure me, he could draw his own conclusions without needing to find proof of my condition.

"No. He's aware that I didn't fully recover, but as far as he knows it's limited to occasional coughs, nothing more." Luckily, Jason accepted my lies without too much prying, even if he didn't seem pleased about doing it. He… trusts me.

That's kind of unbelievable.

"Mmm. Are you here to ingratiate yourself to me, Grayson, in hope I might allow you to use one of my Lazarus Pits?"

"I considered the idea," I admit, "but I came to the conclusion that it was unlikely I could fool you into trusting me. Bruce never told me where the pits are located, if he knows, and I have no intention of attempting to beat it out of any of your subordinates."

Ra's tilts his head and gives a thin smile. "Is that an attempt at lying to me, Grayson, or is it simply because in your current condition you are aware that those I trust with that kind of knowledge are likely above your current ability to defeat?"

"Does it matter?" I counter.

"To me, yes," Ra's replies, instantly.

I bite back something close to a sigh, and then the accompanying urge to cough. It locks my throat shut for a few moments, but I restrain all physical reaction except an automatic twitch of my hand upward to smother the cough. I speak as soon as I'm certain I have control; it's only a couple seconds of silence.

"Whatever secrets you may know, Ra's, you seem to have misunderstood  _mine_. I am fully aware that the things I've done are considered by most others to be unforgivable, and that there is likely no one out there that would choose to help me avoid death. I don't fear dying, I haven't for a very long time. Of course I would choose to survive, if I had the option, but I don't."

It's not a case of being suicidal, I  _do_  value my own life somewhat, but spending nine years under Bruce, knowing that any fight might be my last — either by an opponent's hand, or by my creator's — stripped me of my fear of death. Watching my health slowly decline isn't how I would have chosen to die, if I had to choose, but the particulars of my inevitable death don't change anything. All death is the same in the end, the only change is the level of pain the victim ends up in. Pain, obviously, isn't something I fear either. I've endured far too much of it for it to frighten me.

"No," I admit, against the ingrained conditioning to never,  _ever_ , admit to weakness, "I probably can't defeat any of your higher ranked subordinates at the moment. However, even if I could find a Lazarus Pit it wouldn't matter. I don't know how to use one, or have any clue of how they work, and I know better than to chance misusing anything that powerful. I'm not here for the pit, Ra's, I'm here for Jason. Whether I last a few more months or a year, I'm dying. I won't live long enough to see him fully trained, so he'll need teachers to continue my work and make sure he survives Bruce."

"Concern?" Ra's asks, one eyebrow arching high. "From  _you_ , Grayson?"

"Simple reasoning," I correct. "It might not have been intentional, but I gave everything I had for his chance to live. If Bruce kills him then that was pointless. That seems like a waste of life, even to me."

A small chuckle slips from Ra's' mouth, and he shakes his head. "Pretend you are a heartless machine if you wish, but despite his own flaws your replacement has been a good influence on you. You care for his wellbeing. I didn't expect you to ever be capable of that, considering your past." My mouth opens, but Ra's holds one hand up to forestall my response, and then turns and heads for the desk. Still standing, though there is a knife embedded in the side of it.

"I do not blame you for what you did as Talon, Grayson." That stops my thoughts in their tracks, and keeps me silent as Ra's pours himself a second glass of wine, only filling the glass halfway. The first is still sitting between the splintered remains of Ra's' chair and the fireplace. It's probably lukewarm by now. "I cannot claim to know the specifics of what Gotham's King of Shadows did to you," the hero admits, taking a sip of the glass before turning back to me. "However, I am not blind. Even as a child you were talented, extremely agile. It would not have been an easy thing for a hero to injure you, and few would have had the stomach for it. Gangs are usually far less versed in close combat than heroes, and your injuries certainly weren't gunshot wounds. The only reasonable conclusion for your constant state of injuries was that they were caused by your master; not precisely a difficult thing to believe for anyone who knows him. I cannot blame you for choosing to cut yourself off from emotion, not when that is likely the only reason you managed to stay alive long enough to escape. As well as sane enough."

"Then why hesitate to help?" I ask, slipping through the gap between the couch and the chair to its right, towards Ra's. He extends a hand towards the pitcher of wine, in lieu of answering, and I shake my head, refusing the offer a second time. It would choke me, but more importantly the idea of any kind of inebriation is a hard memory for me. Sometimes Bruce would only threaten a consequence if I disobeyed, but if it was something he deemed important enough then he would force the behavior, and prove how painful it would be if I ever chose to do it myself. He was  _very_  insistent that I would never consume, or use, anything that would compromise control of my body or mind.

Ra's inclines his head for a moment. "Even though I consider you a victim in all this, as much as Jason is one, that does not make your past disappear nor does it make you fully innocent. I don't blame you for those choices, but that does not mean they did not occur. Even taking you as you are now — putting aside your past actions for a moment — you are an exceedingly deadly man with little to no sense of morals, and no particular inclination to do anything that does not benefit you or Jason in some way. You are not, and will never be, a hero. Do you deny that?"

I pause, choosing my words carefully before speaking. "I believe I am beginning to understand why heroes choose that life, but no. I doubt I could ever find the optimistic viewpoint that seems to be necessary, and I am fairly certain most of you would not consider me either self-sacrificial or gentle enough. I admit to considering my life more important than most civilians, and I don't understand the aversion to killing. If you simply killed your opponent things would be solved."

"Thus my reluctance," Ra's points out. "I believe Jason can be brought back from the shadow. Perhaps not as a hero, or even an anti-hero, but I do not believe he ever became as numb to causing others pain as you did. He seems to have retained some of his original personality, behind the angry boy, and I may be able to coax him to return to it. He may still be capable of recovering from what your former master did to him."

I read between the lines.

"You don't think I'm capable of that?" I ask, and Ra's gives me a long, slow look. Not demanding, pointed, or even studying, just looking.

Eventually, he gives a small shake of his head. "Not in a few months to a year," he says, "and I am not confident enough it will ever occur that I would chance extending your life. You are still the favored son of Gotham's King, and if you returned with the location of a Lazarus Pit, healed, and with Jason in chains? He would take you back, we both know it." My throat tightens again but I swallow it away, shoving whatever mix of pseudo-emotions are causing it to the back of my mind. I wouldn't return to Bruce, not unless I had no alternative choice (and I would consider quite a few undesirable fates as good alternatives to returning), but there is probably nothing I can say that would convince Ra's of that. "Your betrayal is not public knowledge yet," the hero points out, "your former master could twist the situation to have been a plan of his all along. I do not fully trust that you won't take that option, so I cannot risk loosing you upon the world. You understand, do you not?"

Actually, yes.

Ra's' reasoning makes sense to me in a way that none of the Jokester's ever does. It's simple, clean, logic, and I can appreciate those qualities. None of what he's said is a lie, either. I am deadly — I've been that way for over a decade — and I can understand why someone generally concerned with preserving life would choose not to keep a killer like me around. I've never considered myself as something to be 'fixed' anyway, why would I? It might have been a painful experience, and I probably wouldn't wish my state of mind on anyone else, but since I  _am_  like this why would I want to return to being a normal, vulnerable person? If I was like any other human, or even like Jason, I'd be just as open to manipulation as the rest of them. As long as I have Bruce as an opponent it's safer to be cut off; otherwise I'd be giving him access to new weaknesses and he already has enough advantages.

"I do," I agree. "Would you prefer that I leave? I am probably capable of concealing myself from Bruce's hunting long enough for this to kill me." A grim way to look at things, maybe, but I have to be certain I'm dead before Bruce finds me. No matter how injured I am, or crippled, my creator has enough metahumans in his debt to heal me if he wants to. He might, purely for the satisfaction of personally killing me. Unlikely, but possible. I don't know exactly how displeased Bruce is with me.

"We both know that is not truly an option for me," Ra's says, with a hint of a wry smile. "Jason considers you the closest thing he has to family, and if I demanded you leave, he would go with you. If I wish to attempt training Jason, I cannot make you leave."

That's probably true. It's possible I could convince Jason to stay, but I don't know him well enough to say for certain. There's also no reason for me to convince him, when the alternative is that Ra's is forced to allow me to stay. It's certainly safer for me here than it would be on the run. Mutual respect only goes so far, and I doubt that Ra's would allow Bruce to find us while we were under his care. He certainly wouldn't let us be taken.

"Are you going to tell Jason?" I ask, and Ra's takes another sip of the wine before answering me.

"No, but that does bring up the need for a reason why I am refusing to train you. Obviously, with your health, I couldn't train you even if I did decide it was worth the risk." His gaze rests heavily on mine, and I wait for him to continue. I have nothing to add to that point; he's right. Even sparring with Jason taxes me, and the colder and thinner air up here will make sure that whatever physical activity I participate in won't be serious. It can't be. "That is a question I will not have to answer today," he says finally, setting his glass down and flicking his eyes towards the door. "No need to worry, Grayson, I'll handle keeping Jason ignorant of your injury for now. Parts of the truth will suffice. He  _will_  find out eventually though. You are aware you cannot hide this forever?"

"I'm aware," I confirm, though the thought of Jason's reaction is certainly an unpleasant one. I can only imagine how furious he'll be, given that his usual state is anger. I might actually think that a barrier between us was necessary, if I wasn't fairly certain that Jason is a bit too morally intact to attack someone that's already obviously dying. Fairly certain. I've yet to actually see him in any real combat situation; this fight with Ra's doesn't count.

Ra's gives a single nod, and reaches within his robes to retrieve something that looks remarkably like an old two-way radio. "Captain," he says smoothly, "please inform Jason that Grayson and I are finished with our conversation. He is welcome back inside."

"Yes, sir," comes the almost immediate response.

Not thirty seconds later the door swings open, and Jason steps back inside. He closes it a little harder than is strictly necessary, and only takes a few steps forward before crossing his arms and glaring at Ra's.

"So?" he demands, and Ra's shares a brief look with me.

"No," the hero starts simply, "I will not be training Grayson along with you."

Jason's reaction is instant. He takes an aggressive step forward, hands curling to fists. "That is such hypocrit—"

"However," Ra's inserts smoothly, cutting my replacement off, "he is welcome to stay here for the duration of  _your_  training. If he chooses to attend your sessions with me, or any others I may assign to teach you, well…" Ra's' lips curl in a small smile, and he raises an eyebrow as Jason stares at him. "It would be rather taxing to attempt barring him from such meetings, wouldn't it?"

Hm. That  _is_  a good solution. Refusing to train me means that I'm not allowed to participate in anything Ra's might teach Jason, which will let me get away with avoiding physical exertion, but allowing me to attend whatever training Jason undergoes will also pacify my replacement. It will give the impression that Ra's is refusing for appearances sake, rather than a personal reason. That will work nicely; it's entirely plausible that Ra's would refuse to train me because it might affect his working relationships with other heroes. Jokester mostly doesn't have to worry about that, Gotham sticks to itself, but Ra's is rather more involved with the hero community. He tends to serve as an intermediary between Gotham's heroes and the other cities', since he's both a bit saner and not as directly hunted by Bruce as most of the others.

"If the two of you wouldn't mind staying here for a few minutes," Ra's continues, "I will get some rooming arrangements set up. We do not usually entertain guests here, and in the meantime I am sure the both of you would appreciate a rest after your trek out here — something to eat, perhaps? — considering my men did not see you on the road." He only waits for a few moments, for a jerky twitch of Jason's head that might be a nod, before sweeping towards the door. "I will be back shortly."

The door clicks closed, and Jason starts back into action. He moves with purpose, and it takes me longer than it should to realize he's collecting his knives from the room. I let him do it in silence, until he pries the last out of the side of Ra's' desk with a splintering noise, tucking it away.

"I've never seen you that angry," I comment, and his blue-green eyes flick up to me. He shrugs, lifting one hip to settle on the corner of the desk, his arms crossing back over his chest. "What happened, Jason?"

"It doesn't matter," Jason almost snaps.

"You panicked," I point out, and his hands tighten over his arms. We both know that fear on the level of what he felt earlier is always, without fail, tied directly into memories of what Bruce did. But usually, I can pinpoint what he's reacting to. Most of the things that freak him out are things I'm also intimately familiar with, things our kidnapper did that I numbed myself to, but Jason didn't. Not this time. I legitimately don't know what it was that scared him, and that doesn't sit right with me.

I  _have_  to know, training demands it. After all, if there's anything that Bruce can do to stop Jason in his tracks, I need to know it too. To minimize the damage, or to at least be able to react appropriately.

Jason gives a sharp huff of breath, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the floor. "I thought you were going to deck me," he admits, and I let my head tilt to one side.

"Why?" I ask, and his shoulders lift in another shrug. Defensive body language, but forcibly noncommittal movement. Whatever memory Jason is thinking of, it's a bad one.

"It's what he would have done, to start."

"For standing up to him?" I offer as theory, and Jason gives a bark of laughter that barely even sounds human.

"No, I stopped doing  _that_  pretty fast." His eyes close, chest rising in a slow inhalation, a breathing pattern. "I was a Gotham street rat, and I talked like one. He  _hated_  it."

_Oh_ , I understand. Language patterns are a difficult thing to break, and I imagine Jason was probably punished quite a few times for his profanity before managing to iron it out. Even now, obviously, those learned patterns still emerge when he's not fully in control of himself. When he's furious, not thinking about what he's saying until after the words have left his mouth. Bruce would have hurt him very badly for a repeat offense like that, regardless of its mostly subconscious origin. It probably cost him over the years.

That's one thing that never even came up between Bruce and I. I knew the words — circuses aren't particularly uptight about behavior — but I was young. I still viewed them as things that should never be said. Jason, however, undoubtedly had them well integrated, since he grew up on the streets of Gotham. There's very little allowance for kids in Gotham's rougher areas.

"Last time," Jason's teeth clench, and he swallows before restarting. "Last time, he broke my jaw knocking me to the ground. It was hours before I could even move, when he finished with me."

"You expected me to do the same?" I ask. That same something in my stomach clenches uncomfortably, and I have to shake off the disturbed tinge to my thoughts. I decided when I first met Jason that I wouldn't hit him in anything but self-defense, and I've never broken that internal promise. Why would he think that I'd hurt him? I've never given him that impression, have I?

"No." Jason opens his eyes, chest still rising and falling in a familiar pattern. "But I thought… I don't know; something. It's just the reaction I'm used to, I guess."

I consider my words for a few moments before voicing them. "I don't care how you speak, Jason. It isn't even something that occurred to me until you pointed it out."

"Trust me, Dick, I  _know_  you don't care. If you haven't noticed, my thought processes don't always make a lot of sense." His tone is sarcastic, but the gaze he lifts to meet mine is still a little wary. "I just keep thinking that someday, I'm gonna find the edge of what you'll let me do." Jason shakes his head again, sliding off the desk to stand on both legs as his gaze flicks to the floor. "Forget about it, it's just my screwed up head."

What I'll let him do? What does that mean?

"Jason—" the door opens, and I silence the question I was about to ask.

Ra's steps into the doorway, and offers us both a tiny curl of one corner of his mouth. "It's rather an odd time of day, but there is a meal available for the two of you. Shall we?"

"Yeah," Jason answers, before I can say anything. He detours, circling around the room to pick up his discarded coat from the floor, and I follow him. He tosses me mine, and I pull it back on as I swallow down my words.

I may believe Ra's has no desire to hurt us, but that is not the same as trust. I won't reveal any weakness to the hero that I'm not absolutely certain he already knows about, and I'm certainly not going to point out Jason's weaknesses to him either. I can wait for a better time, and I don't necessarily need to know what Jason's words mean anyway. If it comes up again, certainly, but for right now I can file it away with all my other unanswered questions.

It will be a fine line to walk, but I can probably get at least a few more months of time beside Jason before something betrays me. After all, Luthor said that ceasing physical activity would likely extend the time I have left. I can make sure Jason settles in here, maybe even point him in the direction of a suitable group of heroes for after I'm gone.

He'll be safer if he's not alone.


	8. Learning to Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so we are officially in the month of NaNoWriMo! That means I am writing nothing but Stray!Verse right now, which also means that you're going to get chapters of this for this month (honestly, because they require the least effort from me). XD Enjoy!

I've come to a decision.

Training,  _real_ training?  _Sucks_. I thought it was just the Owl being a bastard, but  _oh_ was I wrong. Ra's' methods might be more carrot than stick, but that doesn't mean it's  _easy_. I thought anything he could do would be a piece of cake, after four years taking the Owl's abuse, and I wish I  _knew_ whether I underestimated my own ability to take pain, or if Ra's is just a damn slave driver.

I  _hurt_. I'm sore, and aching, and there are days where I don't want to do anything but curl up into a ball on the training mats and  _shake_ when it's over. I didn't think I could get worn out like this, not without being starved or something. But here's the weird thing, it's  _just_ being worn out. I spar with Ra's, sure, but he barely even  _touches_ me. The bruises I do have are all my own fuckups, there's not a one that's from him hitting me 'just because.'

He works me through exercises and repetitions until I can barely stand, until my legs barely even hold me, and it's… it's  _weird_. I've spent  _days_ roaming Gotham and kicking ass, how the  _hell_ can he wipe me out with nothing but half a day's worth of training? I don't understand it.

But damn, it  _works._ Even  _I_ can see that after these two months I'm  _way_ better than I was, and Grayson's commented on it too. I guess that's what happens when you've got a teacher who's actually trying to  _teach_ , huh? Alright,  _or_ a student who wants to learn. The Owl might have been a sadistic fuck most of the time, but he did genuinely want to train me into a deadly weapon for his own messed up reasons. Bastard.

Grayson watches most of my lessons, sitting on the sidelines and absorbing everything Ra's does, but we haven't sparred. The one time I asked Grayson, Ra's shut me down pretty hard. I don't get to spar with Grayson while we're here, the same way that the hypocritical hero won't teach Grayson what he's teaching me. I  _hate_ the idea that he thinks we're  _different_ , that Grayson doesn't  _deserve_ the chance at survival that  _I_ apparently do, but there's nothing I can do about it. Whatever. Ra's' house, Ra's' rules. The  _second_ we're out of here, I'm passing  _everything_ I've learned off to Grayson.  _Fuck_ the hero's hangups about him.

That's something else that's weird, actually. Even though apparently Grayson is lesser, or  _tainted_ , or some other label I'm not even going to  _try_ to guess, Ra's doesn't seem to treat him any stiffer than me. Not like the Jokester's group. They talk, Ra's seems just as friendly, and it's not like they only talk when I'm in the room. If Grayson isn't with me, he's with Ra's. Who  _knows_ what they talk about? I just hope it's not me; I'd be kind of pissed if they were just discussing me behind my back.

Is Ra's just a really good actor, or is he really just as nice to Grayson as he is to me? Because if that's true, why the hell is he refusing to train Grayson? What's the  _difference?_ Ra's won't give a straight answer, and honestly? I'm not pressing it like I could.

Grayson doesn't seem to  _care_ , and if he doesn't care, should I? I mean, I can just teach him all this when we're gone, and he's probably picking up enough to have a good grasp on the basics anyway. He hasn't said anything, so should I just let it go? Maybe Ra's has other reasons for doing this, maybe he  _doesn't_ have a problem with Grayson and it's just some kind of political play that's above my head. Not going to lie; I didn't pay much attention to heroes outside of Gotham, and even  _less_ to how they interacted with each other. It's not like I was allowed outside the city anyway.

Maybe I'll ask Grayson that, next time we're alone. I'll be exhausted, but I'm sure I can hold on to  _one_ question.

His room is next door to mine, and the walls are either soundproofed or  _thick_ , but he always unlocks the door if I knock and of  _course_  I do the same for him. We haven't talked much recently, but I've definitely passed out in his room a few times, when I just… I wanted to see him. After dragging myself through a shower, slathering ointment onto the worst of my aches — and hey, I get fucking  _ointment_ , how awesome is that? — and throwing clothes back on, sometimes I… I  _have_ to know he's still there. I have to know that this wasn't all some screwed up dream, or some kind of game he was playing.

I guess some part of me still thinks I'm going to wake up one day and be back in the cave. It's the same part that whispers that I  _can't trust anyone_ , not even Grayson. But I think, maybe, that I'm actually starting to ignore it.

I can actually turn my back on Grayson without expecting a knife, and I'm even a little less paranoid around Ra's. The random ninjas that come through still freak me out a bit, but it's not so bad anymore. I'm not leaping for knives at least. In fact, I'm only carrying  _one_ knife around anymore — and I'm carrying it  _openly;_ sheathed and attached to my left forearm by a strap — and I  _still_  feel safe. I kept my arsenal around for a week or so, but it was a pain with the loose clothing Ra's has me wearing, and the edges dug into my skin and gave me extra bruises. Then I just hid the one knife I kept around, until Ra's brought up that I may as well carry it openly, if I was going to at all.

I  _really_ wasn't ready to give up carrying a weapon, but I stopped pretending that the members of Ra's' League of Shadows weren't going to know where I was hiding it. Now, having actually met the badass that is Ra's al Ghul, I'm pretty damn sure they're trained better than that.

I think I actually  _believe_ that Ra's really wants to… help me? It was  _way_ easier thinking the Jokester wanted to help me,  _knowing_ that he'd already helped Grayson get out. But Ra's? What's  _his_  motive? Why does he think  _I'm_  worth trying to protect?

Why does anyone?

Gotham's kids aren't worth shit; just because the Owl picked me off the street instead of  _any_  of the others doesn't mean I'm better. He made me a killer, he made me  _worse_ than them. I don't know why anyone is wasting time trying to save someone like me when there are so many kids who  _aren't_ murderers. How the hell can any hero think I'm worth a damn when Gotham's kids  _clearly_ aren't? Why the  _fuck_ does a murderer rate higher than a street rat? Obviously all being a 'hero' means is fighting whatever villain you've claimed as yours. Fuck all the innocents caught in the middle; screw the kids with no  _option_ but to become criminals. It was never about helping us.

How many of the kids  _I_ knew are even still alive? How many ended up gutted on a corner before they even hit eighteen? What lucky few bastards actually got a legal job, or got the  _hell_ out of Gotham? Did anyone?

You know what? No, I don't  _want_  to know. I don't need one more goddamn reminder of how awful Gotham is, or how fucked all of the systems in it are.

Police force? Corrupt bunch of bastards. Government? Didn't give a damn so long as the mobs paid them not to look too closely. Journalism? Yeah, if they wanted to live they printed  _exactly_ what the Owl wanted them to. Don't even bring up the fucking courts, or Arkham. Christ,  _Arkham_.

Everyone knows that Arkham is just a prison for people the Owl doesn't like. I put a few people in there myself, and I had to drag them, kicking and screaming, through the front door. Some kind of thin excuse for paperwork later and I'd leave them there, in cells that wouldn't pass standards for containment in a damn  _war_. If they hadn't personally pissed the Owl off, they got drugs to numb them down and make them complacent. The others, well… they  _didn't_.

It's a damn  _nightmare_ , even for me. I don't know how the Jokester survived being in there; I don't think I could do it. Even just walking in made me wake up in cold sweats for weeks afterward, afraid the Owl would lock  _me_ in there with the rest of them. I mean, it's a place where Talon can walk through their front door and they don't even fucking  _blink_ ; they wouldn't have cared how young I was. Owlman's orders.

Now…  _fuck_. If the Owl catches me, is he going to kill me? Or is he going to lock me in that hellhole? How many of the inmates in there would stand a chance of recognizing me, and what would  _they_ do? I'm not scared of a bunch of human bastards — I can take on  _gangs_ and metas bare-handed, so I can handle some inmates — but if I don't get the chance to fight back… Fuck, I just—

I need to not think about that, ever. Happier thoughts.

 _Grayson_.

…

Yeah, I can focus on Grayson.

* * *

I bend, stretching back and bracing my hands on the ground to let my back curve as far as it will naturally go. Nothing cracks ( _damn_ ), but the strain of it feels good on my sore muscles. I hold the position, easing further into the stretch as my muscles relax into it.

I'm not much for acrobatics, honestly, but that doesn't mean I wasn't  _good_ at them. I had to be. I like the simplicity of a straight up fight more, but this is useful for dodging, for travel, and it keeps me flexible, which is the most important reason to keep doing it. The Owl's fucked up reasons aside, I'm not dumb enough to stop using a skill just because I don't like why I know it. Exercise keeps my mind focused, anyway, so there's another reason. So long as I'm thinking about how my body's angled, or exactly what it'll take to get me to the next position I want, I don't have to think about  _anything_ else. I can, but I don't  _have_ to.

Having a mind that reruns memories as its default thoughts is fucking  _awful_. Thank god that exhaustion wipes that out. Or maybe I should be thanking Ra's instead.

The door opens — and I  _hear_ it, so it's probably not one of the ninjas — and I shove my weight upwards, lifting myself into a one-handed handstand (on my left hand, in case I need my right to draw my knife) and flicking my eyes open to watch the entrance. Ra's slips inside, no surprise there, but behind him is a woman I don't immediately recognize. She looks familiar, so she's gotta be one of his higher level members, but her name doesn't spring to mind. I probably haven't met her, but she was definitely in the Owl's lists.

She looks a little shorter than Grayson (so maybe like, five-seven, or five-eight?), with long, straight, dark brown hair and what I'm pretty sure are brown eyes. She's not  _real_ young, not the age of Grayson or me, but fuck, for all I know she could be a hundred years old. The League of Shadows is just  _awesome_ for figuring out ages; pit of youth and all that shit. I really should just stop guessing and assume that everyone is fucking old.

I let my weight fall again, getting my feet under me and rising to face Ra's and the unnamed woman. I feel it's a sign of great improvement that I let my arms stay at my sides, and  _don't_ go for a position easier to draw my knife from. Wouldn't a therapist be  _proud?_

The door stays open, and Ra's stops just outside of where the training mats are set up. The woman is obviously studying me, but it's not like that's the first time. I get a  _lot_ of stares here, even from the supposedly well trained ninjas. It irritates me, but it's a tiny thing, so whatever. She could be stabbing me. That'd be less fun.

"Jason," Ra's greets, "good morning."

"Morning," I answer, shortening the phrase but adding on a nod of my head. "So, what? Sparring, competing; what?" I don't like not knowing what I'm getting into. I've had just about enough of  _that,_ thanks.

"Actually, I have had some business come up. Jason, this is Talia, my daughter."  _Oh_. Yeah, alright, that would explain why I recognize her face but didn't really remember her. She definitely showed up in the Owl's lists, but she didn't show up in Gotham much. That whole 'weak point' thing coming into play. "Talia, this is Jason, the former second Talon. I don't believe the two of you have personally met, have you?"

Her smile isn't as smooth as Ra's', it's not  _real_ , and it kinda pisses me off. "We have not, father. Jason, it's a pleasure to meet you. My father has said much of you."

I glance at Ra's, and then cross my arms over my chest. The fact that it puts my hand about an inch from the handle of the knife is  _totally_ coincidental. Swear. "Uh huh. I've got a lot of experience with acting, so how about you cut the bullshit?" Letting curses slip into my speech still makes me reflexively tense, but it's  _so_ worth it to watch her smile vanish like someone's wiping it off a blackboard. Yeah, I didn't  _think_ so. "I don't  _care_ if you like me," I point out, "and all pretending is going to do is piss me off."

Talia's lips curl again, tighter but I'm pretty sure it's real this time, and she looks over at Ra's. "You were right, Father, he is  _quite_ abrasive." My jaw clenches, and I viciously bite back the urge to draw my knife and go after her. No,  _no_ , don't piss off the hosts. Ra's is  _helping_. She looks back at me, resting one hand on a hip and raising an eyebrow. "Good. I won't have to soften my behavior to deal with you."

"Yeah?" I spit. "Deal with me  _how?_ "

Ra's cuts in between us. "As I said, I had some business come up. Minor, but requiring my attention. My daughter will be taking over your training for today. We will continue our previous work tomorrow, and do try to keep things civil, won't you both?"

"Of course, father," Talia answers easily, though she doesn't look at him.

"Sure," I answer, a lot more grudgingly. Ra's watches us both for a moment, and then nods and turns away to the door. Before he can get through it, another question pops into my head. "Hey, wait!" He pauses, looking over his shoulder to meet my gaze. "Where's Dick?" I ask.

Usually he's here ahead of time, with me. Not always, sometimes he skips hours or whole days, but that's not normal. It always freaks me out a little when he isn't around. I asked, of  _course_ , but Ra's and Grayson both independently told me that it's just him keeping in shape. Doing his own exercise while I'm running the repetitive, boring parts of mine. I know that's  _true_ , I just like to make sure it's the same every time. Call it Gotham-brand paranoia.

Talia's brow raises a little farther, and Ra's gives a soft smile and a small shake of his head. "I'm afraid I accidentally stole him away from you today. We were speaking in my office when I was informed of the business I must attend to, and I got him rather interested in several of my books. He'll probably be reading them for quite a while. My apologies."

"It's fine," I answer quickly. Reading? Alright, I guess. Whatever. Grayson's allowed to have other interests, and Ra's probably has a  _lot_ of good books. When you're practically immortal you've gotta fill time with  _something_ , right? "Good luck with… whatever you're doing."

"Thank you, Jason." Ra's sweeps out — still not closing the door, what's up with that? — and I turn all my attention to Talia.

"So?" I ask, after a couple seconds of silence. "What's your grand plan for today?" I can't help the sarcastic edge to my tone, but she doesn't seem to care.

"Weapons," she answers, and her gaze flicks down to my arms, probably to the sheathed knife. "We have an area set up here for training with them. Come with me, I'll lead you to it." She turns, obviously expecting me to follow, and heads back out the open door. Ah, that's why Ra's left it open. Got it.

I glance around the room, hesitating a moment, then let my arms fall to my sides as I follow Talia out. I don't bother closing the door either. I'm pretty sure there's some kind of unspoken code of conduct here where you leave training room doors open if you're done with them. That's what Ra's seems to do, and no one's told me to close one yet so I'm just going to hold to that theory. Except doors that lead outside, since it's the middle of winter, fucking cold, and keeping the heat inside is a  _good_ thing.

Most of Ra's' base is in one building, but it's not connected to the main area you walk into when you get here. That one lays out like a normal, if  _seriously_ expensive, looking house. Study, bedrooms, kitchen, living room, etc. Kind of like Wayne manor, but with a way more 'lived in' feel. Out the back of that, and across a cement area that's full of various vehicles, is the larger, main part of the base. The 'League of Shadows' bit, I guess. Barracks, training rooms, mess hall; it kind of feels like a big military compound. Just  _way_ better decorated, and still fancy as all hell. Also, full of mostly anonymous member of the League. Headgear of the masks and hoods variety seems to be optional, but I guess news of Grayson and me being here has spread, because I've only caught a few bare-faced.

I wonder if that's their choice or Ra's' orders?

"I assume you know how to use that blade?" Talia asks, glancing over her shoulder at me and then pointedly down at the sheath strapped to my arm.

The memories hit unexpectedly, and with the force of one of the Owl's punches, making my stride hitch in a way that's so damn telling it  _hurts_. I swallow down the sick feeling in my gut. "Yes," I force out, "I can use a knife."

"For more than just fighting?" she asks, with that same unerring precision for weakness that Ra's has. Fucking  _learned_ skill, must be.

"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I'd like, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to try and force the memories away.  _Yes_ , I can use a knife.

I know how to fight with one, and I know where to strike to injure, cripple, or kill. I can throw them too, if I have to, and I'm pretty damn good at it. I know the feel of the hilt in my hand, the play of the metal between fingers and the  _exact_ weight and balance of how they handle. A knife is a natural part of me, an extension of red gloves and clawed fingertips, and I know  _just_ how to use one.

I know where to cut to avoid arteries, to cause pain but not  _too_ much bleeding so someone is kept alive for long enough to learn the lesson the Owl wanted them to. I know what the cool metal of a knife against flesh feels like, and how it changes as it grows wet with blood and warmer from the contact. I know how to skin someone, or how to cause wounds that will scar into big,  _ugly_ reminders. I know what it smells and sounds like to burn someone with a heated blade, the way people choke and  _scream,_ and the ragged,  _wrecked_ sound of a voice too damaged to even beg anymore.

I remember  _all_ of it.

The sound Talia makes is noncommittal, wrenching me back to the present, and when I drag my gaze off the floor and back to her she isn't looking at me. It's hard to read her from this angle — I can only see her back — but she doesn't look any stiffer. She must know at least some of what I've done, right? Not firsthand, probably, but Ra's would have told her what she was getting into by taking over today. If she didn't already know. Right?

But how  _much_ does she know? How much has she guessed? No one but the Owl and I know  _exactly_ how many fucked up things I've done in his name, but I've hurt enough people that she must know at least some of it. When Owlman wanted me to send a message, usually it was loud and kind of unmistakable as the work of Talon. That was the point. So even if she's never seen me work —  _fuck_ that word — she's got to know.

Besides, she's Ra's'  _daughter_. There's no way he'd let her stay ignorant of everything going on. Even if they're not close family — but it totally looked like they were — it would just be  _dangerous_ to keep her in the dark with Grayson and me around. Even if Ra's is sure we're not going to do anything, he hasn't lived this long against the Owl by not being careful. Plus, Owlman might come after us.

Fuck, what happens then?

The Owl  _will_ come, I'm damn sure of that. However long it takes, one day he'll show up and demand Ra's hand us over. Then what? There's no damn way we're valuable enough for Ra's to start a war over us.  _No_ way. Maybe Ra's doesn't know  _everything_ we do, but he's got a scary amount of insider knowledge and we can't possibly be useful enough to risk the  _hell_ that the Owl can unleash. We're good fighters, but I get why Ra's can't be sure we'd work for him. Besides, Ra's has got  _plenty_ of underlings. He definitely doesn't need two fucked up kids that are  _maybe_ as good as some of his top soldiers. He's better off with people he can guarantee will serve him, not us.

Will he — my throat tightens uncomfortably, and Talia can probably hear the change in my breathing but  _fuck it_  — turn us over? Is Ra's just going to leech what he can out of us and then shove us back at the Owl? Maybe we'd stand half a chance, maybe we'd kill the Owl off and do Ra's' dirty work for him, but that's  _damn_ unlikely. What's the  _point_ of all this then?

We're not worth starting a war, but if Ra's is just going to dump us what's the point in agreeing to train me at all? That's a lot of time he could use doing more important stuff.

I  _hate_ not knowing shit like this.

This is like being back in the cave, the Owl seriously pissed off and me with no  _idea_ what I'd done. Just  _waiting_ for the bastard to lay into me like I  _knew_ he eventually would. Those were the times that were the worst. Not the pain, or the killing, but the  _waiting_. Having to wait for the Owl to decide how he wanted to punish me, or what fucked up thing I was going to do next;  _knowing_ it was coming. People think that your mind can always imagine much worse than people can do to you, but that's a load of fucking  _bullshit_. Now? Maybe. But back then, before I knew what real pain was, what the Owl did to me was always so much worse than I thought it was going to be.

Even those last few times, before Grayson got me out, it didn't  _matter_ that I knew what was coming. Imagining pain doesn't hold a candle to living it, and remembering the pain didn't mean I could magically tolerate it that next time.

If the Owl gets his hands on me again…

Talia turns the handle on one nondescript door, pushing it open to step inside, and I clench my hands for a moment. The tiny pain of my nails digging into my skin grounds me, lets me take a forcibly even breath and follow her inside. I do  _not_ have time for this right now, and I  _refuse_ to let some person I've barely even met see it happen.  _If_ I let myself think about this it'll be in the safety of my own room, where no one can pry my weaknesses apart but my own damned subconscious. I am  _not_ a fucking victim.

I follow her inside, forcing the memories to the back of my mind. I  _force_ my hands to fall open, my shoulders to drop, and my stride to sink back into the easy gracefulness that's not  _as_ good as Grayson, but still better than most others. I wish I could help measuring myself by Grayson and the damned Owl. What the hell is this fucked up world I live in where I can only compare my success to the two people I'm  _never_ going to be as good as? Shouldn't it be  _enough_ that I'm better than literally  _most of the world?_

The room isn't much different than the one I was originally in. It's bigger, but it's got the same basic, matted floor design. There are some tables and racks across the room, with an assortment of weaponry that makes my hands twitch forwards in desire, and some targets and stuffed dummies to my right that are already full of holes. Most are smaller, but there are a few that I'm pretty sure were made by something close to a javelin; if I wanted to I'm sure I could match up the holes to the weapons.

Talia has a tiny smirk on her face, a knowing glint in her eyes. "What?" I demand, letting the door fall closed behind me.

She lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug, looking away and then raising one hand to indicate the weapons across the room. "Pick something," she offers. "I am proficient enough in everything here to be able to teach you how to use it."

Considering the sheer amount of shit over there, that's a damn impressive statement.

I start forward after a moment of hesitation, trying to ignore the way she's watching me. There's something about the way she's looking at me that's like she's stripping my outer layers away, and I don't  _like_ it. I don't like  _anyone_ looking past my shields — my  _anger_ , as Ra's has been trying to tell me — and trying to see what I am underneath them. They're there for a damned reason, if I wanted anyone to be able to see  _me_ I wouldn't have put the walls up in the first place. Being open is a weakness, a vulnerability, and even as a Gotham kid I couldn't afford that. I  _really_ can't now.

Not until the Owl is dead and gone, which is a fucking pointless dream to have.

I stop in front of one of the three tables, looking down at the collection and seriously swallowing back the urge to drool like some kind of serial killer. I can tell that the edges on the bladed weapons are dulled, but that doesn't matter; you can still do a lot of damage with a dull blade. The variety makes some sick little twisted part of me gleeful. There are  _so_ many ways to kill people on this table.

I let my fingers trail over the weapons, feeling the metal, wood, plastic, and assortment of other materials these are made of. I know how to use a knife, there's no point in those, and a sword — or one of the dozen different varieties between — is so not my style. The idea of wielding something like a sword all the time just doesn't appeal to me. Way too obvious; I'd rather knife someone in the back or snap their neck before they notice I'm there. That's what I know, and if you can take someone down without them knowing you're there that's  _so_ much better than a messy fight.

My eyes stray to something  _else_ on the table, and my mouth curls into a vicious grin that I don't even  _try_ controlling. Oh, wouldn't  _that_ be a slap in the face to the Owl. Totally worth it. I reach forward and pick the handgun off the table, the weight of it heavier than I thought it'd be and the metal cold under my fingers.

The Owl  _hates_ guns. I honestly don't really know why, but anyone seriously threatening him with a gun is probably going to lose their hand, at best. Wouldn't it just  _piss_ him off to see one of his precious weapons using one of the things he hates so very,  _very_ much?  _Especially_ against him.

Part of me freezes, cowering into a corner at the thought of purposely pissing the Owl off like that, but the vindictive, bitter,  _angry_  rest of me is more than enough to shut the fear away. Anything I can do to rebel against the broken, beaten bits of me is good. No, it's fucking  _wonderful_. I will  _not_ let the Owl's training dictate what I do for the rest of my life, screw the bastard.

"A gun?" Talia asks, from behind me and to the side, and even though I don't know when she crossed the room — fucking  _ninjas_ — I don't flinch. Not this time.

I turn to her, lips still curled into a grin, and offer a nod. "Teach me how?" I request, forcing my tone to go up a bit at the end to make it a question, not a demand.

One of her eyebrows rises, gaze flicking to the gun with disbelief. "That's a very…  _obvious_ weapon," she states, like I don't  _know_ that guns are loud. Come  _on_. Maybe I've never used one, but I've fought gangs, metas, assassins, and  _all_ kinds of other things. I know how guns work, thank you very much.

"Yeah," I answer, instead of saying any of that, "it is." My grin gets just a little bigger at the pleased thought that the Owl would never let me near a gun in a hundred years.  _Fuck_ him.

There's a sharp flash of realization in Talia's eyes, and then she reaches out and takes it from my hand, spinning it in an easy, familiar grip. She looks up at me, one corner of her mouth lifting into a small smirk. "I suppose you have spent long enough being silent," she agrees. "Sit down, get comfortable." I pause, staring at her with what  _must_ be obvious confusion, and she gives me a  _look_. "I am not letting you shoot one of these until you can take it apart, put it back together, and name every part of it without my guidance. Once you know that,  _then_ I will teach you how to aim and fire."

 _Damn_. "I guess that's fair enough," I admit, grudgingly. Yeah, I suppose it's better to know a weapon inside and out before you start actually trying to use it. That's like trying to play with a butterfly knife before you know how it handles; a quick track to missing fingers.

Besides, I learn fast. Memorization isn't so hard, especially when it's something I actually  _want_ to learn. I can prove that. I'll be shooting before the end of the day,  _watch_ me.

* * *

I pause in front of my door, my hand resting on the knob, and then step back from the entrance to my own room. Okay, yes, I'm seriously paranoid, but there's this nagging doubt that insists that I  _have_ to see if Grayson's alright, since I haven't seen him all day. He was reading, or training, I'm sure, but…

I turn and take the three steps to the side that take me to Grayson's door, and knock on it after a second of biting my tongue and flinging around creative insults inside my head. This is  _stupid_ and I  _know_ it, but it's a sad truth that Grayson's really all I have. I'm probably more than a little unhealthily attached. It's pretty late — at least, it's dark outside of the few windows (there aren't many in the main League of Shadows building, design weakness I guess) — but unless Grayson is still off reading, or sequestered in some corner, he should be here. Where else would he be?

Okay, ouch, I didn't really think about it that way before.

It takes a few moments, but then there's a muffled click and the knob turns, the door opening a few inches. Blue eyes peer out, most of Grayson's body still hidden behind the door in a defensive move that we  _both_ do instinctively, and then he fixes his gaze on me and opens the wooden barrier the rest of the way.

"Jason," he greets, softly. "What is it?"

"You don't look great," I blurt without thinking about it, and one of his eyebrows flicks upwards for a moment in some kind of muted version of a real expression. It nearly makes me cringe back — I'm just  _waiting_ for the day he snaps at me for something,  _anything_ — but I hold; it's  _true_.

He's pale — okay, so Grayson is normally pale, but I mean the kind of pale that comes from unconsciousness or blood loss — and there are some faint circles under his eyes that I'm pretty sure weren't there before. I've been distracted, I'll be the first fucking one to admit that, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered it if Grayson's been looking like this the last few days. I'm not  _that_ oblivious, right? God, I hope not.

"A misjudgment," he explains shortly, stepping aside to let me in the room. I take his unspoken offer, slipping in and watching him as he closes it behind me. He's a little… stiff. That just looks straight up  _wrong_. "I finished with the first of the books Ra's pointed out to me and decided to slip a workout in before it got too late. There weren't any free training rooms, so I did it outside instead. Not a good idea, in hindsight."

I wince a little, as he idly flips the lock on the door and then crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. I follow him, sitting down next to him after a second of hesitation that I can't shake off. It still  _amazes_  me that Grayson lets me get this close, lets me call him by a sort of insulting name, and doesn't even react most of the time. I could never let anyone else do that to me, I'd break something of theirs before I let them call me anything but my name.

"The cold get to you, or what?" It  _is_ freezing out there — literally, actually — and things could go bad  _really_ quickly in a workout with those kinds of temperatures, even without considering the ice, or the snow. I mean, we've both worked in Gotham during winter, and it gets pretty damn cold there, but not like this.

Grayson's lips twitch into a thin smile, and he shifts to allow me a little more room between the wall and his frame. "Somewhat, yes. The air up here is thinner than I'm used to, and I didn't take that into account in addition to the cold. I pushed myself too hard, too quickly, that's all. I'll be fine, promise."

"You'd better be," I say, forcing an aggression into my tone that I honestly don't feel. I'm almost, worried? It's weird, and  _so_ not something I want to think about right now. "Why didn't you come by after you were done reading?" I ask instead, and he meets my gaze with one pointedly arched eyebrow.

"I know everything about weapons that I need to," he points out, "so I didn't see a point in watching Ra's' daughter take you through anything I already knew. I doubt she would have appreciated my presence, anyway." Do Talia and Grayson have some kind of background? He hasn't told me anything, and she definitely didn't mention anything. Not that she'd have any  _reason_ to unless he was there, or I specifically asked. "Besides," Grayson continues, "it was a useful slice of time to myself. There are actually several things I haven't had time for recently that it would be good to restart; it might be alright if this became a more regular event."

Something in me twinges at the thought of Grayson leaving me alone to do his own thing, but I shove it down  _ruthlessly._ Oh  _fuck_ no. Alright, I might be a little unhealthily attached, but there is  _no_ way I'm doing some kind of crazy stalker thing. Grayson can, and damn well  _should_ , do his own thing away from me. I do  _not_ need all of his attention, all the time, no matter  _what_ that awful, insecure, fucking  _paranoid_ bit of me insists. There's  _got_ to be better uses of his time than just sitting and watching me do seriously repetitive training drills. Just because none spring to mind doesn't mean they aren't there.

"What other things?" I'm honestly curious. I know he's got exercise to do, to keep himself in shape, but what else can he do up here? Well, reading, apparently, but that's probably not something he  _needs_ to do so much as something he  _can_ , to pass time. There might be interesting or useful information in the books, but they're probably not important the way that relearning our fighting styles is important.

"Information," he answers easily. "I need to talk with Ra's about what computers he has that he'll allow me to use. I'm a bit out of the loop when it comes to news; I don't have access to my normal sources of intel up here."  _Oh_. Well,  _damn_ , I hadn't even thought about that. Yeah, I knew Grayson kept up to date with what was going on in Gotham, and in the masked communities, but I really never stopped to think about  _how_ he did it. I'd guess it probably takes a decent amount of time without the Owl's automatic search engines and filters, and time isn't something that Grayson's been getting up here. Let alone anything to do the research  _on_. You can't just pull up information like that out of thin air. Unless you're a telepath, but Grayson definitely  _isn't_ , occasional moments aside.

"I don't expect him to allow me to use most of the ways he gets information, considering I don't know what most of those ways are, but a simple internet connection would be enough for me to at least keep up with basic news events." His fingers tap against his leg, idly, and his gaze lowers to the floor. "Since we're here I certainly don't need the same level of information that I did while I was in hiding, but I'm not fully comfortable with acquiring all of my news secondhand from Ra's."

"Yeah," I cut in, "let's  _not_."

I'm still pretty sure Ra's doesn't want to hurt either of us — not that he  _wouldn't_ , if he needed to — but that doesn't mean I want him controlling all the information that gets filtered to the two of us. I'd rather Grayson learn everything himself and pass on the important bits to me, not get fed it by Ra's. Who  _knows_ if he'd be honest? I trust Grayson's sense of importance a little more than Ra's'.

"We're agreed then. I'll talk with Ra's the next chance I get."

"Oh!" My mind clicks back to earlier conversations. "Do you know what he had to do today? He was pretty vague about it."

Grayson shakes his head. "He didn't tell me, but it was rather sudden. Something to do with Bruce, I'd assume. Not much else gets that kind of reaction from Ra's."

I tense up for a second, insecurities snapping back to the surface. Fuck, the  _Owl?_ Is it that soon already, has he found us, is he coming for us? I'll  _die_ first, I swear to god. I would rather put a blade through my own throat than let the Owl have me again, and I'm damn sure that's not an exaggeration. A quick death would be  _so_ much better than what I know he'll do to me. I am  _not_ living through that again.

"Jason?" I jerk my head back up, finding Grayson's gaze trained on me. "Are you alright?"

The lie comes to the tip of my tongue — " _I'm fine, Dick."_ — but I can't manage to spit it out. I swallow instead, managing a jerky shake of my head as I close my eyes. Just for a little while, just long enough so I can center myself in the black and my own head. Grayson's shoulder presses into mine, the same gentle touch he uses every time I close down like this, and then there's a faint touch to the back of my hand where it's sitting beside my leg on the bed. I flick my eyes open, to look down, and force back the automatically violent impulses that rise when Grayson's fingers curl over mine. It's not a hold, or a pin, I could pull away if I wanted to, but…

I don't.

Grayson did this one time before, when I freaked the  _fuck_ out on Ra's, but he's never done it again. It's… it's everything that should  _terrify_ me — and fuck, some part of it  _does_ — but it's just… It's so  _nice_ to be touched by someone who isn't going to hurt me, someone that I can, trust? That's a hard word to stomach, and it's even harder to let the hand on mine stay. The conditioned, trained parts of me scream to shrug it off, get the  _hell_ away before the touch turns into pain or holds me down, but I take in a slow, deep breath — staring down at it — and manage to push those thoughts away.

This is  _Grayson_ , this is… fuck, this is  _Dick_. If there's  _anyone_ that I can trust, it has to be him. This can't be easy for him, either. He's gone through everything I have and maybe more, touch can't be a natural thing for him. Not touch like this, anyway. Sure he can grab someone and snap their neck in a second, or hold someone in a pin, but just touching for the sake of it? The Owl trained that out of me damn quick. Except the Jokester and Harlequin, no one's touched me without a  _reason_ in… Fuck, not since Crime Alley. So, over five years? That's,  _wow;_ that's sad to think about.

Grayson's touch scares the fuck out of me, but it also brushes something in me that I can't (don't  _want_ ) to name. Something new, growing and  _trying_ to push past everything I threw down and repressed to stay  _me_  under the Owl's hands. I'm probably insane for even daring, but I  _have_ to know what it is, and why I can take this kind of contact from Grayson when anyone else would get a snapped comment and probably a punch. Not yet, not  _now_ — I'm still trying to figure out who I am outside of Talon's mask — but I can't just shut it down. Not without a chance.

Grayson twitches, starts to pull back, and my fingers clench reflexively down on his. He stills, and I  _can't_ raise my eyes to his as I choke out, without even thinking about it, "Don't."

He doesn't answer me, but his fingers give a tiny return squeeze. My breath catches, and I have to clench my teeth together and squeeze my eyes shut to stop the burn in them, the threat of tears.  _No_ , I haven't cried in a  _long_ time and I'm definitely not doing it  _now_. I'm not that weak, I'm not a damned  _victim_.

I fight the feeling back, making  _damn_ sure my eyes are dry before I risk opening them again. I shift, hyper aware of the warm press of Grayson's shoulder and the equal warmth of his palm against the back of my hand, his fingers wrapped around the side. I take in another breath, steeling myself before slowly, haltingly, leaning a little further into his shoulder. He doesn't react, but at least he's not pushing me away and considering what we've been through, that's  _something_.

I tuck my head down against his shoulder,  _waiting_ for the shove, or the blow, or  _anything_ that I could even vaguely consider as rejection. It doesn't happen. His breathing stays slow, even, and he stays steady under the slight weight I'm leaning on him. My fingers tighten over his, and  _magically_ , I feel the pretty much constant tension in my shoulders ease a little bit. I breathe, letting it happen and letting my eyes slip closed.

I didn't think I was ever going to get something like this again. Or, at all? My Mom was alright for stuff like this, sometimes, when she wasn't high or bruised, but after that… I never trusted anyone in Crime Alley enough to voluntarily get this close, not even the doctors in the clinics down there. They were kind, yeah, and I knew they weren't going to hurt me, but I was still  _afraid_ back then. I was sure that anyone who was kind to me was going to turn me into one of the orphanages, or the 'juvenile delinquency center,' as they called it. The streets were usually safer than that, sadly enough.

Grayson shifts just a little bit, meeting my pressure with a bit of his own. "You smell like gunpowder," he comments quietly, and to my surprise I  _don't_ flinch at his voice.

"Yeah," I confirm. "I asked Talia to teach me how to use a gun." I can almost  _feel_ his surprise, and I simplify all of my inner ramblings, bitterness, and insecurities into a basic statement. "He'll hate it," I say simply. I'm still not sure if that's a  _good_ thing, but right now it feels good to spit in the face of what the Owl expected me to be. It feels  _great_.

There's a moment of silence between us, and then Grayson gives a soft huff of breath that I'm pretty sure is amused. "How did it go?" he asks, instead of commenting on my (probably a little suicidal) reasoning.

"Good. I think I impressed her." By the end of the day she was treating me a little more like a student, and a little less like a murdering bastard that she'd been tasked to watch. So, a little more matter of factly, and not just studying. It was… nice. "She wouldn't let me have ammo until I could take the gun apart, name all the pieces, and put it back together again," I expand, after a silence that feels strangely comfortable. "It took me about an hour and a half." A little slow, by the Owl's standards, but Talia didn't say anything about it, and I'm pretty sure she thought I was going to take longer than that. I actually thought the whole thing was going to be a lot more complicated than it was.

"Are you any good with it?"

I can feel Grayson's breath against my ear, so his head must be turned down towards me, and he's… he's just  _letting_ me do this. Something in me warms, cracks with a feeling that's scary as all hell but just feels so good I don't give a damn. Grayson  _cares_. Whatever he acts like, however emotionally fucked up he might be, there's some part of him that cares about me. He's letting me  _touch_ him, letting me lean on him like we're  _normal_ ; there's no better proof than that. Actions always speak  _so_ much louder than anything else, and I know how  _I_  would react if anyone else tried to do this to me.

"Yeah," I answer, surprised by how tight my throat is and how hard it is to speak past that. "Apparently I've got a natural eye for it, or something."

I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to my own room and have to face the silence alone. I'm not tired — firing a gun is hardly exhausting in the same way Ra's' training is — and I just  _know_ that if I go back to my room I'm going to end up staring at the ceiling. My brain working in overdrive, replaying memories, paranoid thoughts, and every fucked up future I can imagine. It'll be  _oh_ so fun.

"If her training of you continues I'll stop by and watch sometime," Grayson offers, his fingers twitching in the tiniest increase of pressure that I've ever felt. That  _something_ cracks open a little wider.

"No pressure," I snort, and Grayson gives another of his soft huffs. He doesn't follow it up with anything, and I slowly open my eyes.

I've never  _asked_ to stay before. The couple of times I've slept here I just passed out, I've never done it on purpose. But I'd like to. How do I even  _start_ asking something like that? What if he says  _no?_ Fuck, what then? This is probably the calmest I've been in years, I don't want to ruin that.

"Dick?"  _Damn_ my mouth. Well, fuck, now I'm stuck asking to stay. Grayson will know if I bullshit up some other question, or comment. I  _know_ that. Not even worth trying to lie to him.

"What is it?"

I have to swallow back nerves, and something that feels a lot like fear. Just  _spit it out_ , come on. It's not that hard, right? I can just— "Can I stay in here tonight?"

Grayson is silent for a second, and I don't  _dare_ pulling away to look at him and try to read a reaction. What's he thinking, what's he about to do? Am I about to get shoved off him, or told to get the hell out? No, Grayson would never curse like that. But he might throw me out. Literally.  _Fuck_.

It's just fucking  _amazing_ how insane (and paranoid) my thoughts can get in the span of about two seconds.

"Of course," Grayson answers, way too easily to justify my freak out over asking. That was anticlimactic. God, what's  _wrong_ with me that I'm  _disappointed_ that I got what I asked for without any kind of fuss, or sacrifice? I know I'm seriously fucked up but maybe I can at least just accept this, this one time? Just once, can I enjoy something without thinking about the negatives, or twisting it somehow?

Just  _once_.

"You're always welcome here, Jason." Grayson nudges me away from him, squeezing my hand with slight pressure before pulling away. I straighten up, reluctantly, as I look up to meet his eyes. "Go take a shower," he says with a flicker of a smile. "I'll be here when you're done."

Right, I still smell like gunpowder. Probably not something that Grayson wants in his nose all night. "Yeah, alright."

I hesitate a second before getting to my feet and heading for the door. I can  _trust_ Grayson. He said he'll be here, so he'll be here. It's that simple. Grayson wouldn't lie to me.


	9. The Sound of a Screech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome back to another chapter, this one from Dick's PoV. Hope you enjoy!

Each breath is like I'm coming face to face with death. My chest aches, my air comes in starts and stops, and I wonder every time — even while I  _know_  that it will pass — if I'm about to die. There's a basic, primal fear about not being able to breathe. It's even worse when you can taste blood on your tongue, and the world blurs as you hack, cough, and struggle to draw in enough air to stay conscious.

A hand touches my head, then slips down to gently rub at my shoulder as blood speckles the floor in front of me. I curl my hands against the cool wood, my nails scratching uselessly along it. I'm unable to get a solid grip on anything to ground me.

It's Ra's' hand, I know that. He's at the wrong angle for me to see him — at my back — but he's the only one in the room. I'm pretty sure. I probably wouldn't know if someone else came in the room right now, the world around me really isn't something I can be too aware of.

I was talking to him when my lungs seized and I collapsed to the floor. It's not the first time this has happened. The first time was nearly a month ago, in the early morning before it was time for Ra's to start Jason's training for the day. Nothing triggered it, I didn't do anything that might have caused it, I simply  _couldn't breathe_. I collapsed, and Ra's passed off Jason's training to his daughter, Talia, for the rest of the day. He stayed with me until it passed. That first attack — I don't have a better word for them — lasted about ten minutes. Now, they last hours.

I have to struggle just to stay conscious, and in a completely different way than I've had to deal with in the past. I'm used to fighting unconsciousness due to pain, or exhaustion, but not from an inability to breathe. It's a feeling I don't have any practice with, and that minimizes my ability to deal with it. There's pain, of  _course_ it hurts, but pain doesn't mean anything to me. The desperate, panicked, purely human need for air is something I haven't felt since I was learning to hold my breath. That was something I could control, it was something I could fix with enough time and practice. This will not be going away.

Ra's' hand clenches down on my shoulder for a moment, then smoothes over the back of my neck, beneath my hair. I think it's intended to be comforting, or steadying, but it certainly doesn't feel that way. It reminds me of a gloved hand, claws pricking my skin as I shuddered through whatever pain that same hand had already inflicted. But I can't concentrate enough, or get enough air, to put together the words to tell him that. I might trust Jason enough not to care that he's touching me, but I can't extend that same level of trust to Ra's. I know he isn't going to kill me — what would be the point? I'm already dying — but still, that doesn't mean he won't hurt me, or attack me while I'm down. There are a hundred different things he could do to me that would leave me perfectly alive, but I would never allow if I could stop him.

The worst part of all of this is that I'm effectively helpless. While I'm under these attacks, I don't have any kind of control. It takes everything I have just to stay above the threatening blackness, and I don't have the spare energy to stop anyone from doing anything they want to me.

As proved by Ra's' hand.

I probably wouldn't tell him anyway, to be honest. I've  _had_ the chance, in all the times that I've been  _not_  spraying blood and occasional pieces of my lungs across the floor. But admitting weakness to someone is something I'm so deeply ingrained against doing that it makes me a little sick to think about it. I can't really afford to be more sick than I already am.

Ra's already knows I'm dying, and he knows how  _bad_ this is, but that doesn't mean I have to show him anything else. Give him as few advantages as possible, minimize his ability to strike me where it hurts. The less I tell him, the less opportunity he'll have to plan ways to take me down.

I suppose that kind of falls apart as a reason when it's something so minor. There's not much Ra's could do with knowing that I don't like being touched, and if I'm being honest — which is something that I'm getting used to doing with others — he probably already knows. Even if it's not written all over me, it's clear on Jason.

Jason shows everything that I hide, all you have to do is look at him to know my paranoias, and the things that I was taught to fear. A hand on the back of my neck is definitely one of them. That's a telling touch, when Bruce does it. It was usually reserved for when we were in our suits, as a way of telling me that there was going to be a discussion of  _something_  when we got back to the cave, or out of the view of whoever we were fighting. It's the same meaning behind a hand that was pressing just a little too hard on my shoulder, when he was Bruce and I was Richard. Nothing anyone would notice, but if he purposely targeted my bruises with a seemingly innocent hand I knew that there would be pain later.

But I  _can't_. I  _can't_ admit that insecurity to Ra's. There are some things that are too deeply conditioned into me, things I'll never be able to shake. A refusal to admit weakness is one of them.

I gasp, managing to draw in enough air to soothe the burn for just a moment before pain hits, my shoulders jerking inwards as it bursts out of me in another cough. I can taste the blood, it's probably smeared over my cheek and forehead — from being face first against the floor I'm spitting the blood onto — and even though it's a familiar taste something about it  _feels_ more significant. I know there's no actual difference, but there's some subconscious part of me that insists that because this blood is from a fatal injury, because I'm  _dying_ , it should be different.

It's  _not_. It's just blood. I've tasted, felt, and spilled more blood than I can remember.

I clench my teeth together for a moment, trying to hold back the pressing urge to expel the air I'm fighting for. For that moment, it works. Then my lungs contract, in a reaction to the pain that I can't control, and the cough forces its way back out, straight through my teeth.

I've had more than my fair share of experience with pain, and I thought I was in control of my own body. It's unnerving to have it be so completely out of my hands, to be so  _completely_ unable to stop myself from getting weaker and weaker every time. I haven't been in a situation that made me react in a way I couldn't command for a long time, not since Bruce taught me how. There are some things that you simply can't control, but most things that a body does can be monitored and set to a pattern, if you have enough concentration and the necessary practice.

My next inhalation comes a little easier, allowing me to draw almost half of a normal breath before it's forced back out. I time my breathing, trying to steady it out. It's hard to tell if the easier coming breaths are actually an end to the attack, or if it's just a lull. All I can do is take the opportunity to breathe, shallowly and steadily — with the occasional remaining cough — and try not to do anything that might start another coughing fit.

Ra's' hand leaves me, and I hear the rustle of his robes as he stands and the tap of his heeled boots as he crosses the room. Probably to his desk, and the bowl of water and small black hand towels that he now keeps in there. I didn't ask, but he brought them out the second time this happened, and has again every time since.

He clicks his way back over, and I slowly uncurl as he approaches. I brace my hands on the floor, and even though they shake — and it feels much harder than it should be — I manage to push myself up to something like sitting. My muscles feel a bit like water, and my sense of balance is completely off, but I can keep myself upright for the most part. My air still comes in shallow gasps, and it hitches more than I'd like, but the simple act of being able to breathe feels unbelievably good.

Ra's sinks down, setting the bowl of water beside me and offering me one of his hand towels, already damp. I take it, raising it to my face. I can't see, and I don't  _know_ there's blood on my face, but it's more than likely. After wiping myself down, as well as doing my best to remove the smears of blood on my hands, I lower the hand towel to my lap and take a moment to close my eyes and let my head hang.

"You must tell Jason," Ra's says, breaking the silence.

I wait a few moments to answer, finally flicking my eyes open and looking over at him. "I know." My voice is ragged, and I grit my teeth for a second to choke back another cough.

"He  _will_ find out, Grayson. You've been lucky so far, but eventually he will be around when one of these attacks occurs." Ra's' words are matter of fact, but his tone has a disapproving hint to it. He doesn't like that I'm hiding the fact that I'm dying, doesn't particularly like hiding it for me, and is firmly of the opinion that I should have told Jason the moment I knew.

It's not that simple. I'm the only person who knows what Jason's been through, and what Bruce did to him, and that makes me the only person that he's really started to trust. If I told him I was dying, I honestly don't know what would happen.

He'll be angry, I know that. But the specifics, the details, of what he'll do after the initial shock has worn off? I have no idea. Jason has a few conditioned responses that I don't, but most of our reactions are the same, though mine are internal and Jason's are shouted for the world to see. However, because of those few anomalies, I can't always accurately predict what he'll do. That makes planning things around him a challenge.

What if he runs, or goes back to Bruce? Alright, that's not going to happen. I am almost entirely certain that Jason would never go back to being Talon, regardless of the situation or any promises that were made to him. The tiny doubt is simply because I don't trust anything fully, and everyone has a price.

"Grayson," Ra's says, this time with more obvious disapproval.

"I know," I repeat, the words catching in my throat like they've got barbs on them. "I'll tell him." I lean forward a bit — not too far, I might fall over if I unbalance myself too badly — and swipe the hand towel over the floor, getting most of the blood off it in one motion. Whatever Ra's coated his floors with it makes getting blood off of it really easy, which I suppose is useful when you're a hero. I can only imagine the amount of blood that's been on or around these floors, but they're still remarkably clean.

I lean a little further, catching the drops I originally missed, and then fold the towel up until most of the bloodstained parts are in the middle. Ra's takes the cloth from my hand, picking the bowl of water back up and standing to carry both items back over to his desk. The taps of his heels sound a bit like hammers inside my skull as he crosses the room, sets them down, and comes back over. He offers me a hand, and I take it.

My vision blacks out for a moment as he pulls me to standing, and I spread my stance a little wider to brace until I can see again. The rushing in my ears calms down after a few moments, and I release Ra's' hand as soon as I'm sure that I can stand on my own. He gives me a look, and pointedly flicks his gaze towards the chairs and couch in front of the fireplace. There's a fire in it, of course; it never seems to go out. Though I've never seen anyone tend it. I suppose Ra's' League of Shadows keeps it fed.

I cautiously test my legs, shifting my weight back and forth to make sure my muscles will hold me if I walk, before following Ra's' silent direction and heading for the couch. I can hear Ra's following me, ready to catch me if I fall, which I have a time or two. Luckily, I make it. I sink into the cushions, drawing my legs up to curl into the corner. I keep them far enough forward not to press against my chest, but close enough that I can rest my forehead on my knees.

Ra's sits down in the closest chair, to my right, crossing one leg over the other and giving me a look that is somewhere between concern and disappointment. "It is starting to become obvious, Grayson. Even if one of these does  _not_ occur in front of Jason, eventually he will figure out that you are clearly not in good health. It would be in your best interest to tell him  _before_ that happens."

"I know, Ra's," I say for the third time, lifting my head off my knees to meet his gaze. I make my tone a touch colder, though it doesn't really work with the way my voice sounds right now. Even if Ra's had any reason to be threatened by me, right now I'm roughly as threatening as an ordinary gang member. That is, not at all.

"You," Ra's starts, arching one eyebrow, "are the only one in the world that young man truly trusts. You are already being taken from him, don't break his trust as well. It will go better if you are the one to tell him."

I refuse to repeat myself a fourth time. I am  _aware_ that I need to tell Jason this, and I am  _aware_ that I need to do it before Jason figures or finds out some other way. I haven't done it yet, but I will. I don't need to be reminded, I'm already fully aware of this every moment of every day. It's impossible to ignore.

"Is there any news I should be aware of?" I ask, bluntly changing the topic of conversation. Right at the moment, I don't have the energy to be as subtle as I usually am.

Ra's gives me another  _look_ , but thankfully lets it drop. "A few items of note, yes."

I do my own research to stay up to date on what's happening in the masked community, but over the last few days I haven't had the energy. I don't fully trust Ra's not to handpick what he tells me — though he allowed me an internet connection to do my own work without even the blink of an eye — and I'm simply more comfortable finding things out for myself than relying on him to tell me what I need to know. I'll confirm everything he tells me later, make sure he's giving me the straight facts — if biased from a hero's perspective — but for now I can make do with the headlines.

"Owlman and Zatanna are at odds again," Ra's starts. No surprise there. "She's moved her manor across the country, it's somewhere in Central City at the moment." I dip my head in acknowledgment. Bruce and Zatanna have an on again, off again 'relationship', though I don't know why. She's pretty much constantly displeased with him in some way, usually about something to do with Superwoman, his much more permanent interest. Of course, Superwoman is married to Ultraman, so that might be why Bruce is so much more interested in her. Zatanna doesn't mean much of anything to him; it's a miracle he hasn't gotten cursed by her yet.

"Ultraman is off world, for the moment." And that would explain what happened between Zatanna and Bruce. With Ultraman off world, Superwoman and Bruce will be reuniting again. Bruce isn't afraid of Ultraman, and he has too much blackmail and too many weapons to care what the Kryptonian thinks, but when Clark is gone the two of them get really blatant about things. Zatanna wouldn't appreciate that. "He left with Power Ring for something, but no one knows what yet. We have some people looking into it. No word so far."

Heroes usually get extra paranoid when any of the Crime Syndicate (apart from Power Ring) leave Earth. I don't think they've gotten over the time that Ultraman threw a meteor at the world and nearly managed to destroy it, they all watch pretty carefully now. Owlman and Ultraman had a nasty fight after that, in fact the entire Crime Syndicate pretty much turned on Ultraman for a while. No one appreciated him trying to destroy the world when they were all firmly involved with trying to rule it.

Bruce keeps tabs on everything, naturally, but he doesn't go into space often. He dislikes how dependent he has to be on others; it would be far too much of a temptation for most of the other crime lords to simply  _not_ retrieve him if his ship failed or was destroyed. He loses a fair amount of his advantages in space, so he does his best not to be required anywhere. Being teleported or traveling through a boom-tube to another planet is acceptable, but actual space travel is avoided.

"Red Archer and Arsenal had a disagreement last night," Ra's continues, flicking his gaze to the fire for a moment. "Arsenal slept with a hero, he has an eight month old daughter, and Red Archer finally found out. Arsenal's been disowned both as a criminal and as his real identity, cut off from everything Queen has."

"Really?"

That's actually, very surprising. I worked with Arsenal — Roy Harper — a fair amount when I was Talon. Red Archer — Oliver Queen — might be good at what he does, but he also enjoys the high society life that Bruce only pretends to. If he can send other people out to do his work he usually takes advantage of it. I spent a lot of time in Star City, paired up with Harper and doing anything Queen wanted us to. Usually fairly basic terrorizing of gangs, heroes, or anyone else who found themselves on Queen's bad side. Queen adopted Harper as a kid, legally and as a sidekick, and unlike Bruce and I's relationship he actually cared for Harper. They were more like father and son, or an older and younger brother, then they were ever master and weapon. They had their fights, of course, but usually it was fixed within a day and forgotten within a week. I didn't think anything could separate the two of them.

Then again, I'm probably not the best person to judge relationships, or anything similar. Perhaps Queen and Harper's bond only looked so perfect to me because I had little to no experience with a true family dynamic, as well as the fact that I doubt the two of them wanted to appear as anything but a completely united front in front of me. After all, I was the weapon of Owlman, and that's one person it's better to never show any kind of weakness to. Even if they  _were_ a mess before — though I doubt it — they wouldn't have let me know.

"Who's the hero?" I ask, and Ra's gives a tiny smile.

"Cheshire, she's one of mine." That, I knew. I've come up against Cheshire and her mainly hero family before. "It wasn't intended, but I can't be disappointed in her, not with an outcome like this. The child is hers, she'll raise it well, and Arsenal is on the streets for now. He shouldn't last long."

Shame. When it came to other criminals I worked with, Harper was one of the ones I enjoyed the most. As much as I ever 'enjoyed' any of it. He's probably the closest I came to a friend while I was Talon, though of course we never made anything official. Bruce would've beaten me black and blue for forming any kind of a bond like that. Harper was good at his job — a very talented sharpshooter, with bows and arrows as well as a variety of guns — even when he was younger, and didn't judge or shun me the way most other people I worked with did.

If my exterior and skill didn't aggravate or scare them, then usually people simply treated me as the weapon I was loaned out to be, or they had some kind of dislike for Bruce and treated me with a similar hatred. But Harper didn't. It never seemed to bother him that I didn't engage like normal humans did, or that I never really responded to any of his jokes or comments. I spoke as needed, to communicate my plans to him, but little more than that. It didn't slow him down at all. He actually, impressively enough, learned to read me and what I thought based only on tiny twitches of my expression. He was pleasant to be around.

Ra's' smile flickers out, and he taps his fingers against his thigh. "Lastly, Wizard was killed just this morning by Johnny Quick. No one is quite certain what happened — you're aware of Wizard's magical skill — as the battlefield was fairly obscured, but when things cleared up he was dead."

I hide my skepticism, but ask, "Actually dead?"

At one point, Wizard was just an illusionist, and his main skill is still illusionary magic. I actually don't recall how many times that hero has 'died' or 'been injured' only to appear the next day or week perfectly healthy. Perhaps heroes are more aware of his comings and goings, or at least more informed, but it seems foolish to count him as dead until more people know what happened.

Ra's lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. "It's difficult to say. No one's heard from him, but there have been times he's gone into hiding before where we've been in the dark for weeks. We'll probably wait a month before officially declaring him dead, just in case. He's never been completely silent for any longer than that." Ra's gives a soft sigh, and then eases back into the chair. "It's always a shame to lose anyone, but events like these do make it difficult to know for certain whether we'd be grieving for nothing. On the plus side, us not knowing will keep the Syndicate guessing as well."

There is that. Maybe Bruce knows, but the rest of the Syndicate? Not likely. I doubt that even Johnny Quick himself is sure if he actually killed Wizard or not. Those are the problems with fighting an illusionist mage.

"So," Ra's starts, once more focusing entirely on me. "When you tell Jason about your condition," the implied order is obvious, "it may be good to have future events planned. Don't you agree? What he's to do after you're gone, that is. Have you thought about that?"

"Yes," I admit, leaning back into the couch and wincing through a swallow. "I don't have any details thought through, but—" I have to pause to cough into my hand, and for a moment I'm  _sure_ I'm about to start gasping and choking again before it passes. "He'd be safest with a team." My words are stilted from forcing myself to be steady again, but at least I just sound rough now, and not so much like I've been screaming for hours. I know what that voice sounds like, luckily I'm not there.

Ra's ignores my pause, and cough. "A team of heroes?" he asks, confirming, and I nod instead of speaking. The less I speak right now, the better. If I can just sit here and focus on breathing and  _not_ aggravating my lungs, that would be a good thing. "You've considered the possibilities?"

"Doesn't matter," I counter. "Jason will do what he wants."

Ra's gives a soft chuckle. "That's true. I doubt anyone could force Jason to do something that wasn't his choice, not anymore at least. There has been enough of that." He uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet, pushing up out of the chair. "Would you like assistance to return to your room, Grayson?"

My automatic reaction is no, but unfortunately the realistic answer is a yes. I doubt I can get all the way to my room — especially across the outside yard between the two main buildings — by myself, at least not in any kind of a decent time, or easily. I could probably manage it, but it would take me a while, and might end up with me in a second coughing fit.

I nod, and Ra's holds out a hand towards me. For the second time I take it, lowering my legs back to the floor before he pulls me up. My right leg nearly buckles underneath me, but I lock my knee back to keep standing, only allowing it to bend again once I'm sure my leg will hold my weight. Ra's releases me, nodding to the door.

"I'll collect your coat," he offers, only waiting for a nod from me before he sweeps — it's rather difficult for him to move in any other way, with robes like those — across the room to where I discarded my coat when I came in. I head for the door, shakier on my feet than I'd like but at least I can walk on my own.

I need a shower, to wash away any traces of blood I missed, as well as any sweat, and then I could use a  _lot_  of sleep. Nothing will take energy out of you quite as quickly as having to struggle to breath. Nothing will take the energy out of you quite as quickly as dying.

* * *

The knock on my door doesn't come as much of a surprise, though I was expecting it earlier than this.

I get up from the bed — thankfully some of my strength is back, and I'm no longer struggling just to stand — and head for the door. Ingrained defensiveness still makes me only open it a crack, peering out to make absolutely sure it is who I think it is. The black hair and blue-green eyes are obvious.

It's Jason, of course. He stops by most nights that I'm not there watching his training, which is every day that I either have one of my attacks, or Talia is in charge of him for the day. I know how to use weapons, I don't need to learn anything more than what I already know. Not that I actually need to learn anything from his unarmed combat teachings either — I certainly won't live long enough to use them — but that's a matter of keeping up appearances. I  _have_ to go to at least most of those, so that Jason doesn't wonder why I'm  _not_ going.

I really  _should_  tell him what's happening to me.

I open the door, stepping aside to let him into my room. He still looks just a bit wary when he comes in, like he's not totally sure I'm actually letting him in without ulterior motives, despite all the times he's been in here. Jason is like me, we don't trust anything that's free. We're trained to expect that if we're given something, we're expected to use it for someone else, or we're getting it because we've promised to sacrifice something in return.

He steps inside, and I push the door closed behind him with a soft click, locking it with a swipe of my hand. Old habits die hard.

I turn to him, flicking my eyes up and down him in a cursory examination. He's already showered, his hair is still damp and pressed back against his skull, and he's wearing a pair of what looks like black cotton sweatpants and a shirt; sleepwear. Mine are dark grey, but I'm dressed similarly. He's thicker now than he was when we first came to Ra's, having finally grown into the bulkier build that's closer to Bruce's musculature than mine. I'm thinner, an acrobat, but Jason's built as more of a brawler. He's tall, too. He's actually taller than I am now, by about an inch. It's strange to have to look  _up_ at him.

"Hey," he greets, one hand rising to rake back through his hair before his eyes flash with surprise and he jerks that hand back away, as if he'd forgotten his hair was still wet. A tiny flush, some mixture of anger and embarrassment, colors the top of his cheeks, and his gaze drops to the floor. He might  _look_ like an adult, but Jason is still very much awkward in his own skin. That should change before too long, he'll get used to it.

"Late night?" I ask, circling around him to sit back down on the bed, my back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of me. There are no clocks in here, or windows, but I can tell time without them, and it's later than Jason usually stops by.

He makes a noise of agreement, following me and pushing his way in to lay down next to me, his outside arm tucked beneath the back of his head as he looks up. "Ra's came by after Talia and I were done," he explains, in a voice that's actually deepened to be a little lower than mine, "ran me through a bunch of drills. Said something about learning how to use guns not giving me the 'proper amount of exercise.' " He snorts, shaking his head a bit. "It's such bullshit."

His gaze flicks to me briefly as he curses, but when I don't react it turns back up to the ceiling. He's starting to relax a bit, which is good. Actually, Ra's' ambush of him was probably my fault. When I got back to my room it wasn't long until the normal time that Jason comes by, and Ra's probably intervened to give me more time to clean up and recover.

"You seem alright," I comment, and he gives half a shrug.

"It was only about two hours, that's not enough to tire me out. It just woke up a bunch of aches that I was  _trying_ to forget about, guess that's out the window." His eyes flick shut, and I can physically see some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders, letting them lower to a more normal position. "Whatever."

His shoulder is pressed against the outside of my thigh, and the arm not beneath his head is lying loosely over his stomach, the shirt riding up a bit where it's not  _quite_  big enough for him. He hasn't asked for new clothes since we got here, but he's definitely put on a bit of height and a fair amount of muscle mass; he could probably use new things to wear. He's fairly pale, like me, but his skin is more naturally golden than mine. The slice of skin visible on his stomach, across his abdomen, has some scar tissue on it, but it would be difficult to visualize the scars it belongs to if I hadn't already seen them a fair amount. Jason isn't the same road map of marks that I am, but he's got more than anyone our age should, and probably more than anyone else in the sidekick business.

"Hey," he starts, after a minute or so of silence, opening his eyes halfway and looking up at me. "You still haven't come by to watch me shoot. You said you would."

"I did, didn't I?" Honestly, I'm concerned that the smell, combined with the sounds — gunshots don't make me flinch like they used to, but there's still an automatic response of tension that comes from being shot at — will send me into an attack. As much as I think I'd enjoy seeing Jason proud of his own skills, it might send a bad message for him to find out I'm dying by that causing an attack. "When's the next time you're working with Talia?" I ask.

Jason pauses, eyes closing again as his fingers tap on his stomach. "Next week, I think? Not sure what day." He hesitates, and then peers up at me through slitted eyes. "What day of the  _week_ is it?" he asks, in a tone like he can't believe he doesn't know. That's probably about accurate.

"Thursday," I answer, instantly. "Do you want to hear the current news from the masked communities?" I haven't done my own research yet, but I'm pretty certain Ra's is being honest with me. Jason doesn't usually ask me for specifics anyway.

Jason nods, closing his eyes and shifting a bit to a position that looks a bit more comfortable. "Go at it."

I can summarize. "Zatanna moved her mansion to Central City, her and Bruce are fighting again," Jason stiffens for a second, then shakes it off and gives a snort, but no comment. "Ultraman is off-world and will be for the next few days."

"Doing what?" he asks, but I can only offer him a small shake of my head — that it then occurs to me that he can't see, because his eyes are closed.

"No one knows, yet," I answer. "He went with Power Ring." Jason lifts the hand on his stomach in a vague 'go on' gesture, not opening his eyes even a little bit. "Arsenal got disowned by Red Archer, as a sidekick as well as legally, in their real identities."

Now Jason's eyes flick open. "What?  _Why?_  I thought they were pretty much family."

This feels a bit like what I imagine gossip to be like. "Apparently he slept with a hero, Cheshire, and had a daughter with her. Red Archer found out last night and didn't appreciate it. I don't know the full story, but Arsenal is cut off from everything, he's out on the streets."

"Fuck," Jason mutters, "that's gotta suck. Rich boy like him, he wouldn't have a  _clue_ how to survive out there. I mean, it's not  _Gotham_ , but still. Streets aren't a fun place if you don't know what you're doing." Jason shrugs and closes his eyes again, tilting his head back into the cushion of his arm. "Being trained will help him out, he might live a few weeks before someone takes him out."

"He might be alright," I offer, my eyes flicking to Jason's throat as he swallows, following the movement. "I know Arsenal — Harper — he's resourceful, and he's fairly tough. He kept up with me decently enough when I was Talon, and I taught him a few things about tracking and being tracked. How to hide. He might survive."

Jason's looking up at me again — with an expression that I'm fairly sure means that he's wondering about how I know Harper, or how and why I taught him things — but he doesn't speak, just firmly closes his eyes as his face smoothes back out.

"Any other news?" he asks, after a second or so.

"Wizard might be dead," I inform him, and he gives an instantaneous snort.

"Yeah," Jason says sarcastically, " _sure_. Tell me that again in a month, Dick."

"My thoughts precisely," I agree. Jason's mouth curves into a grin, and it's so satisfied, so  _happy_ looking, that the words stirring in my chest curl to ash inside of me. I haven't seen Jason look this pleased since the time I first brought training up, and I don't think I've ever seen him this relaxed before.

He's calm, and he's  _trusting_ me with a bared throat and closed eyes, totally defenseless if I chose to attack him. He doesn't  _know_ how easily he could take me down right now. I could kill him right now before he could do anything about it, even without the knife beneath my pillow. My throat tightens — emotion, this time, not my injuries — as I stare down at him, watching the easy rise of his chest and the smooth lines of his face. He  _trusts_ me. I know how unbelievably hard it would be to purposely put myself at someone else's mercy like this, even if that someone was Jason, and the fact that it looks so  _natural_ for him is…

Like he can lay there next to me and not even  _think_  about the idea that I might curl my fingers around his neck and  _squeeze_. Like it hasn't even occurred to him the dozen ways that I could kill him like this. One arm is trapped beneath his head, and the other could easily be pinned down to his stomach. Lean my weight on to him, curl my free hand around his throat, even with a method so crude I could probably suffocate him before he could work up the strength or right twist of motion to stop me.

And he's just  _lying_ there.

His eyes pry open a bit, slits of blue-green irises looking up at me. "What?" he asks.

My mouth opens, ready to say something, some lie, and then clicks shut again. His eyes open a little further as I glance at his throat, at the arm behind his head. "You're," I start, and words fail me. I have to pause for a few moments before I figure out how to say what I want to. "I could kill you," I tell him, and I can see the hint of wariness bloom in his eyes. His eyes are fully open now, and he's still in a way that I recognize as being primed, being  _ready_. "You know that, don't you?" That isn't… that wasn't what I wanted to come out.

Jason watches me, and then his chin tilts up a bit, throat bared in a way that is defiance, and  _challenge_. It's a  _dare_ , not a weakness. "Would you?" he asks bluntly, in a tone that is mixed parts wariness and something so uniquely  _Jason_ that I can't accurately name it.

"No," I answer instantly, and then give a tiny flinch as the automatic reply reaches my ear, and then the truth of it hits me. I swallow, barely even noticing the drag of it down my throat. " _Never_." I don't deal in absolutes, I  _shouldn't_. Everyone has a price, everyone can be forced to do  _anything_ , but… Jason's eyes widen, locked onto my gaze, and his chin falls back that bit to a normal position. We stare at each other, and I swallow for a second time. Automatic physical reaction to strong emotion, the clinical part of my mind notes. "I can't imagine killing you."

I  _can't_. God, I  _can't_. The thought of breaking Jason's neck  _hurts_  somewhere in me, stings and aches like a half-healed burn. I don't know what happened. I should be locked down, I should be safe, I should be able to kill  _anyone_. Why not Jason, what's special about him that I can't stomach the idea of putting a knife through his heart? And why, god  _why_ , does he  _trust me not to?_ He shouldn't, by all rights he  _shouldn't_ , but there he is. Putting himself at my mercy, leaving himself  _open_ and  _defenseless_ to anything I choose to do to him.

I'm a killer, I'm a murderer, he knows that better than anyone but Bruce. Knows the things I've done under Bruce's orders and the blood that's soaked into my skin. Who  _trusts_ someone like that, like  _me?_

My fingers curl into the blankets of the bed, and I tear my gaze away to stare across the room, to not have to look into those bright blue-green eyes and know that the person behind them  _trusts_ me. It's stupid, it's  _idiotic_ , no one should trust me with their well being, let alone their lives. I've killed, and tortured, without asking anything more than ' _how?_ ', and I didn't care. I chose not to. Things are easier if nothing can reach you, but this…

Jason is the only person in the  _world_ who shares my life, who knew exactly what I was before we even met and doesn't  _care_. He  _knows_  how deadly I am, and he can still lie there on his back with his neck bared, eyes closed, and  _trust_ me not to slit his throat.

God he  _trusts_ me.

I curl, drawing my legs up and wrapping my arms around them, burying my face between my knees and out of view, out of the range of that  _look_  that threatens to see right through me. I  _can't_. Why doesn't Jason see me as what I am, why does he insist on this, this open,  _vulnerable_  thing with me? How can he  _do_ that? I am not worth trusting. I am  _not worth saving_. I know that, everyone else knows that! All my life I've been treated with indifference, fear,  _hatred_. I'm a weapon, I'm  _nothing_ under the blade Bruce made me become, and everyone  _else_ gets that. Even Ra's knows that it's better for the world if I just  _die_.

"Dick?"

And  _that_. I remember hearing that as a child, from my parents as I slipped through the air between them. Light, and carefree, and as at home on a stage as I could ever be  _anywhere_. Jason using it is… is…

_Fuck_.

"Grayson!" Hands grip my upper arms,  _hard_ , and my head snaps up. It takes me a moment to put together the face in front of me with Jason, to recognize the wide worried eyes as my replacement's. "Fuck, are you alright?" he demands, fingers clenching down a little harder. More than enough to leave bruises. Those will hurt later, I guess. Jason shakes me, one sharp jerk back and forth. "Dick, you're freaking me the hell out. I need you to fucking  _answer_ me."

_How?_ How can anyone consider me worthwhile for anything but killing? That's all I'm good at, it's all I'm useful for. It's what I was created to be; I'm just a blade, a bullet. I'm a  _weapon_ , not a person. You don't  _trust_ a weapon, you either use it or watch it to be sure you aren't the one it's being used  _on_. You don't  _lie there_ with your eyes closed.

"Dick—"

" _How?_ " I ask, with a desperation that burns in my chest, that  _demands_ an answer. I have to know. "How can you  _trust_ me?"

He flinches back a little, confusion obvious in his eyes and his brow furrowed downward. "What? You've never hurt me, Dick, you've never done  _anything_ but help. Of all the people in the  _world_ , why wouldn't I trust  _you?_ " I laugh. A raw,  _destroyed_ thing that threatens to choke me, that barely even sounds human to my ears. " _Fuck_ , Dick, don't  _do this to me_. I  _need_ you here."

That cuts it off, abruptly, and I stare at him. God, and I'm  _dying_ , and he doesn't  _know_ it. " _Don't_ ," I say, and it's  _dangerously_ close to pleading, to the kind of begging that I was  _never_ supposed to even think about. "Jason,  _don't_." I shake my head, tasting phantom — or is it real? — blood on my tongue. "I am  _so far_ beyond broken," I say softly, letting my hands curl into the fabric of my sweatpants tightly enough to whiten my knuckles. "Don't trap yourself with  _me_ , you have a  _life_. You—"

"And you  _don't?_ " Jason demands, fingers tightening once more, like steel around my arms. "I am so  _sick_ of your bullshit, Dick," he snarls, anger brightening his eyes until they blaze. "I don't  _care_ what you think, or what Ra's says, I am not  _better_ than you. We've both done  _fucked up_ things, and just because I made things  _worse_ for myself doesn't make them any  _less_ fucked up than what you've done!  _You_ should know that!" Pain spikes, sharp and clear in Jason's eyes, and his teeth clench together. "Fuck, if anything  _I'm_ the one people should hate. Not you."

"What?" I ask, and he shakes his head and releases me, sitting back.

"You were  _six_ ," he stresses, "I was  _thirteen_ , and a Gotham kid. You didn't have a choice, you never had a fucking chance, but  _I did_." Jason's voice catches, frustration, anger, and  _pain_  in his gaze. "I  _chose_ to do those awful,  _fucked up_ things, Dick. That's what no one  _fucking_ understands. It's not that I did them, it's that I  _chose to_. I—" His hands clench fistfuls of the fabric at his thighs, and the look on his face is like someone's twisting a knife into him, his eyes dropping to the bed between us. "Fuck, Dick, I… I tortured a  _six year old kid_. I  _chose_ to do that, to save my own  _fucking_ skin. A little six year old girl, and she  _screamed_ and  _screamed_  and it was  _hours_  and I didn't—" Jason's voice cracks, his shoulders are visibly trembling.

He takes a thick breath, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he continues. "Everything breaks given the proper application of force," Jason says quietly, his words stiff like he's reciting something. "But that's—" He breaks off with a sharp laugh, bitter and hard-edged, and looks back up to meet my eyes. " _You_ broke, Dick,  _I_ didn't.  _You_ did everything because you were  _already broken_ , and I chose to do it. So where does that put us in your little dream reality where I deserve a second chance and you don't?"

Jason holds my gaze, challenging and  _demanding_ an answer from me. I don't have one. He gives another laugh after a few seconds, shaking his head and releasing the tight grip he has on the sweatpants. "Yeah. So what kind of fucked up  _monster_ am I that I could do all that shit while I was still me, Dick _?_ I know what  _I've_ done, what the fuck makes you think that I give a damn what  _you've_  done? You—"

There's a knock on the door — two loud slams, like a pounding palm — and we both jerk sharply. Jason turns automatically, crouching and getting his legs beneath him as his lip lifts in a snarl. I do nearly the same, without the snarl, but after a moment of silence I quietly snag the knife from beneath my pillow — palming the blade — and slip off the bed. There's another knock, nearly identical to the first, as I cross the room. I reach forward, flipping the lock, and pull the door open.

One of Ra's' faceless minions is standing there, only his eyes — a dark brown — visible behind his uniform, hood, and face mask. His eyes flick briefly down to my hand, then to Jason on the bed, before returning to meet my gaze.

"Master al Ghul sent me," he says, in a slightly muffled voice that's just a little rushed, like he's in a hurry. "I'm to escort both of you to a panic room, immediately."

"Why?" Jason demands, and I can hear the faint rustle of the blankets and then the nearly silent pad of him getting to his feet.

Ra's' minion glances back past me, undoubtedly to Jason.

"Owlman is here."


	10. Hunter in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am still deep in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I shall be brief. I love you guys, it's Friday, have another chapter, and I hope you like it!

The door closes with a thud, and the heavy click of a serious lock. It looks imposing even to me, and  _fuck_ I can pick or disable just about every lock that exists. I have no  _idea_ what the locking mechanism is on that thing, but considering that this is  _Ra's'_ equivalent of a panic room I'd bet it's way more than meets the eye. It's probably designed to keep out pretty much the whole Crime Syndicate. Locks, magic, kryptonite and lead, all that good stuff.

This is  _insane_.

I'm standing in Ra's al Ghul's panic room in a pair of sleeping pants and a black t-shirt. I'm barefoot, my hair is still a little damp from the shower I had not  _fifteen_ minutes ago, and I don't have a weapon. Mostly it's that last one that's making me freak out a bit. Yeah,  _panic room_ , but nothing is totally invulnerable and I'd  _really_ like to have a knife of some kind even if it wouldn't do me any good anyway.

I turn, slowly, looking over the rest of the room. Grayson's already crossed over to the computer banks across the room — which are faintly whirring, and full of all kinds of buttons, and screens, and lights that are probably keyed to some kind of security system but  _hell_ if I know what it is — and is half bent over a selection of screens. I follow him over, standing at his shoulder and trying to ignore the low,  _sick_  feeling in my gut.

Of all the  _bad_ timing, this is just a fucking nightmare. The Owl coming here,  _now_. Getting dragged out of that room with Grayson to hide off in a corner until he's gone…

I don't know where we stand, I don't  _know_ how our conversation was going to end. Grayson…  _Fuck_. I don't know what happened. He just fell apart; for a few seconds in there I was pretty sure he'd just straight out had a mental break on me. He's pulled himself back together — he's back to blank — but there's something in the set of his shoulders that isn't right, something that feels defensive and that  _hurts_.

I should know better. After the things I've done,  _fuck_ , I should be glad he hasn't… I don't know.

I set my teeth, watching his back for a moment before stepping closer and looking down past him, to what he's looking at. It doesn't  _matter_. My cards are on the table; now he  _knows_. There's nothing I can do but wait for him to decide what he's going to do about it. I can deal with it, right? I've taken so much already, Grayson's cold mask shouldn't mean a damn thing to me.

He's studying a selection of screens that look like security feeds —  _very_ high quality, just as good as the Owl's — of various parts of Ra's' manor. There are a fair amount of moving figures on them, it looks like Ra's' whole league has pretty much risen out of the ground, and they're all rushing somewhere. Busy,  _preparing_. I scan them until I find Talia — her mouth moving in silent shouts, ordering a dozen or so uniformed ninjas — and then again until I find Ra's. He's the only still one of all of them, sitting calmly in one of the chairs by the fireplace in his study. He's just  _waiting_.

Grayson reaches forward, tapping that particular screen, and the wall in front of us — what I  _thought_  was black metal — clicks on to that camera feed. I can hear the faint crackle of the fire; the sound is  _good_. Grayson steps back, into me, and he jerks and snaps his head around like he's ready to  _gut_ me.

I take a quick step away at his reaction, instinct and training taking over for a moment and sinking me into a wider stance; ready to fight. His eyes meet mine, and after a moment of silence he shakes his head and straightens up, looking away. My stomach contracts like the dismissal is a blow, that ache in my chest turning into a  _knife_ for just a moment. I thought…

I really thought I had something.

"Dick…" I don't have anything more than that. I  _want_ , and it  _hurts_ , and I don't know how the hell to say that in any way that will make  _any_ kind of sense. I thought Grayson would understand. I didn't think that he'd shut off like this, not after the last couple of months. Fuck, I could sit there with him and just touch, or just lay there, and we'd talk. It was  _easy_ , and it was  _simple_ , and it felt better than anything in my life has in  _years_. Ten minutes, ten  _fucking_ minutes, and suddenly it's like we're strangers again.

Grayson looks up at me — and there's something  _wrong_ about that, that I'm taller than he is — his gaze studying,  _judging_. I  _can't_ keep it, and my hands clench without my permission as I drop my gaze to the floor. What did I  _do?_ I have to have done something, right? Why else would Grayson be looking at me like that, like I'm some new  _thing_ that he has to figure out? I did something.

The silence  _burns,_ heavy like the weight of someone on top of me and  _screaming_  with all the memories I can't dig out of my conscious. "Say  _anything_ ," I ask, and it's so close to begging that I can't force away the shudder that drags itself up my spine. Never beg,  _never_. "Or if you're going to hit me just  _do it_." I'd let him. If I offended him, if I managed to  _hurt_ Grayson somehow, then I deserve it. He saved my life, he got me away from the Owl, so I don't  _care_ what he does to me. I'd let him do whatever he wanted to. I'd take it.

Just (please,  _god_ ) don't let him shut me out. I'll take whatever pain he wants to deal out so long as he  _stays_. It's sick, and unhealthy, and I know this is pretty much the foundation of  _every abusive relationship ever_ , but Grayson is the only person who knows the things that the Owl did to me. I can't lose that, I… I  _can't_. Who else could understand what it was like? What he did to me, and what  _I_ did to survive it? How could I  _ever_ tell anyone else those things? God, why did I ever tell  _Grayson?_

"Do you really think that?" Grayson asks, something in his voice that I don't recognize. "That I'd hurt you?"

I cautiously raise my gaze, up to meet the slightly narrowed eyes of the only other person as screwed up as me. "Yes?" It comes out as more of a question than a statement. I  _don't know_. I have no  _idea_ what Grayson is capable of, or what he might do to me. Grayson's jaw clenches down, and I can see the bunch of muscle under his shirt, the tiny tells of an incoming blow. I flick my eyes shut, turn my head a bit on instinct to minimize the impact.

I feel the rush of air against my cheek — fast movement, close — and then fingers are grabbing the hair at the base of my skull and  _yanking_. It doesn't really hurt, not with my kind of tolerance for pain, but it bares my throat for a moment and that startles me into conditioned fear.

I jerk against the hold and  _almost_ lash out before Grayson snaps, with the cold anger I've always  _dreaded_ hearing from him, " _Jason_." I swallow and look down to meet his gaze. His jaw is working like he's chewing his words, and I can see the stiff tension in his shoulders, in the muscles of his neck. "I. Am.  _Not. Bruce_ ," he states. Slowly, clearly, defining each word on its own.

If my mind was working, if I could just  _fucking_ think…

"I don't understand," is all I manage, in a thick tone that is some mixture of whatever the  _fuck_ it is that I'm feeling. Grayson's fingers flex in my hair, like he's thinking about wrapping them around my throat, and I have to force down the urge to step back, pull away, pull out of  _range_. "Whatever I did I didn't mean it," I pacify, swallowing back an apology for something that I wasn't even aware of doing. "I—"

His other hand snaps forward, and even though it's the wrong angle I still flinch, expecting it to land as a punch. His fingers grab a handful of my shirt, at the collar, giving a single,  _sharp_ pull to demand my attention. "Jason,  _stop_. You didn't do anything, I promise." I swallow, taking some kind of comfort in the gentler tone his voice has calmed down to. "I—" He pauses, closing his eyes for a moment. "I don't know how to say the things I want to," he admits, "but this was  _me_ , Jason, and I'm not—" His fingers contract, clenching down. "I'm not  _Bruce_ , and I will  _never_ hurt you for any reason but self-defense.  _Never_."

I shiver,  _feeling_ the truth in Grayson's words on more than a conscious level. "What happened?" I ask, passing over all of this. All this  _bullshit_. "You…  _Christ_ , Dick, what  _happened?_ "

He gives a huff of breath that sounds like a sigh, easing his grip back up and letting go of my hair. "I don't know who you think I am, Jason, but even if the way you think of things is right, I'm  _not_ worth the effort of trying to fix. I'm a long ways past broken, and you  _shouldn't_ trust me. No one should."

"You  _just said_ you'd never hurt me," I counter, as the hand clenched in my shirt releases it and smoothes the fabric back into place instead, fingers brushing warm against my skin. "If that's true then what's the reason I shouldn't? And that doesn't answer my  _question_. You  _fell apart_ , what the hell was that?"

Grayson gives a slight shake of his head, holding my gaze. " _You_. Of everyone out there  _you_ know the most about what I'm capable of, you  _know_ how dangerous I am and the kind of things I can do to a person. And  _I_ know how hard it would be for me to put that kind of trust in  _anyone_ , especially someone like me. No guarantee, no promise, no  _anything_ , how could you  _possibly_ put that much faith in me? When I'm…" He swallows, gaze dipping for a moment to the floor. His face is still blank, but his words and voice are something else entirely. "Broken," he finishes, softly.

"What the  _fuck_ does it matter?" I answer instantly, reaching up to touch his left side, feeling the muscle underneath the thin shirt. He  _lets_ me. "Can't we just be who we are?" I turn my head to brush the hand he has on my collar with my jaw, closing my eyes for a second. "Who the  _hell_ gets to decide if we need  _fixing?_ " I demand, meeting his gaze again and curling my fingers into his shirt. "We're not  _tools_ , Dick, and  _fuck_ the rest of the world. There's a lot of shades of grey between broken and whole."

What the hell is this black and white mentality? You're not just 'broken' or 'fine.' I'm not as far as Grayson was pushed, and I didn't break the way he did, but that doesn't mean that I'm alright. I am fucked, I am screwed all to hell, but I don't need to be  _fixed_. I'm not some machine that needs a damn tune up. People are so much more  _complicated_ than that, and  _damn_ the world there is nothing  _wrong_ with the way I am. I don't  _like_ it, but that doesn't make me intrinsically  _wrong_ , and it doesn't mean that someone can take a hammer to me like a bent sheet of metal until I'm flattened out again.

"We don't need the world's  _approval_ ," I nearly snarl, "and they're never going to give it anyway. The rest of them can go to hell."

Grayson's chest rises against my hand, and then drops as he speaks. "Why  _me?_ " he asks plainly, something pained in his voice.

" _You_ know," I answer after a moment. A shudder shakes my shoulders, and Grayson's hands tighten for a moment. "You get what it was like to… Under the Owl. I don't have to  _tell_ you that, Dick. I,  _fuck_ , can you really imagine  _anyone_ accepting me if they knew what I'd done? If I told them  _any_ of it?"

And that's not even getting into that I'd have to  _tell_ them. I don't think I could stomach reliving all of it by having to tell it to someone else, and I  _definitely_ couldn't do it while they sat there and watched me. While they cringed and  _judged_ , hating me a little more with everything they found out that I'd done. No, to hell with that. My past can stay  _right_ where it is.

"Everyone else pretends, but you're," the words catch in my throat, and I have to swallow before I can finish the sentence. "You're the only one who actually knows, Dick. I don't kn—"

The sound of shattering glass is like a gunshot in the mostly silent room, and both Grayson and I whirl towards it in reactions that look almost exactly the same. My gaze snaps to the wall, to the screen, and my throat goes tight in sharp fear. I step back, out of my ready stance and poised to flee, until I manage to clench my teeth and drag anger forwards to dull the fear. He's not even  _here_ , there is no damn way I'm going to hide in a corner.

The Owl is crouched down in Ra's' study, among the shattered remains of one of the floor-to-ceiling arched windows with his metal-coated cape spread around himself. He straightens up, the large white eyes of his mask turning to Ra's as he unfolds. Ra's stands, not visibly bothered in the slightest. His right hand slips low to retrieve a long, thin sword that gleams in the light from the fire.

Ra's circles around the couch, the tip of his blade held down, until he's standing across from the Owl. There's a poised tightness to both of them that feels like they're both just a hair's breadth away from violence, and there are several long moments of silence before either even moves. The Owl glances briefly around the room.

"Ra's." That  _fucking_ voice.

My breath comes shallowly, the quality of the camera and whatever audio capturing devices are in there making it feel like this is a window to the other room. Like the Owl is one step and one smash of a gauntleted fist away from breaking in here. The thought freaks me the hell out, even though I know it is damn well  _not true_. We're behind concrete, and metal, and a fair bit of  _mountain_ , not to mention whatever defenses Ra's has around this place.

"Shadow," Ra's answer smoothly, flicking the sword to one side — but not raising it — in what looks like a cross between a salute and something  _really_ dismissive. That name confused the hell out of me for a while; until I just  _asked_ Ra's what he meant.

All his 'faults' aside, Ra's respects the Owl's skills, intelligence, and the amount of power he's gained. Plus, he knows that the Owl is secretly Bruce Wayne. Ra's calls him Gotham's King of Shadows, to others, and just plain Shadow to his face. It's respect.

"Is that the way you want to start this, Ra's?" the Owl asks, voice low, deep, and rough enough to make me shudder even through the screens, to make my chin raise in a gesture of defiance so  _branded_ into me that I don't think I'll ever shake it. "By using  _that_ title?" He doesn't step away from his spot, still partially in the darkness but with the moonlight shining through to glint off the broken glass on the floor and paint him in varying shadows.

Why would he do that, anyway? The Owl could walk up to the front door anytime he felt like it, he doesn't have to force his way in. He  _chose_ to make an entrance. To start things off by placing himself and Ra's on different levels. Aggressor and defender; starting with things that are obvious, violent gestures.

"You have already shattered my window, Shadow. I think you started this meeting with that nature, don't you agree?" The Owl doesn't answer, and Ra's continues after a moment. "Besides, the fact that you do not enjoy my title for you does not mean anything to me. It is what I have chosen to call you, regardless. What is your business with me,  _Shadow?_ "

I can see the Owl's jaw clench down, lips curling into a faint sneer at what he interprets as mockery. I honestly don't know if he knows Ra's' full name for him, or if he doesn't like the whole thing as a title either.

"You have some things that belong to me." There's no question in The Owl's voice, only  _fact_. He  _knows_ we're here. My breath catches, and I watch the mask turn as the Owl scans the room before returning to look at Ra's again. "I would like them returned," he says, voice like shards of fucking  _ice_.

"Your desires don't mean anything to me, Shadow. Didn't we establish that fact of our personal dealings a long time ago?" Ra's' voice is as smooth as it always is, but it's also hard, unyielding.

The Owl's head turns again, to the right and unerringly  _directly_ into the camera. His sneer slips to a tiny smirk, and it's like he's looking right at me, like he can see me through the screen. He couldn't, right? No way.

I take a step back and then someone is  _touching me_ , and I jerk. For one heart stopping,  _terrifying_ moment I think that somehow the Owl has phased through every material between us to get to me, and I spin. Either to fight, to do whatever I can to  _hurt_ him, or maybe just to collapse to my knees and cower, to  _beg_ for his forgiveness even though I  _know_ how much he hates that.

It's just Grayson. Grayson's impossibly bright blue eyes and ear-length black hair, and his hand gentle on my shoulder and somehow not withdrawn even though I jerked. Not confining, not demanding, just there. He looks at me for a moment, and then steps forward and for  _some reason_ I can't understand his arms are around my shoulders and his body is pressed to mine. It's not quite comfortable — full of awkward angles and I'm too  _tall_ for this to work how I think it's supposed to — but it's  _something_ , and this is  _Dick_. He's all lean muscle and gracefully long limbs, so  _different_ from the Owl that even the hand sliding over the nape of my neck ( _suggesting_ that I lower it, not forcing it down, and I  _let_ it) isn't enough to scare me.

"Both of them are  _mine_ , Ra's." I flinch,  _sharply_ , at the rumble of the Owl's voice behind me, and Grayson's hold gets a little tighter. "You will give them back, or I will tear your bases apart stone by stone until I find them." The threat isn't a bluff, and it's viciously cold in a way that not even  _Grayson_ can mimic. Patterns beaten into me draw my shoulders in and tuck my head against my only real ally's shoulder. Minimize the open area, don't let him at your head.

"I have you, Jason," Grayson says softly, his voice a direct contrast to the Owl's rougher one. "I have you." I choke in a breath, reaching desperately for the pain and  _fury_ that got me through this the first time, but it keeps slipping through my fingers.

"Are you certain you want to start that kind of a war, Shadow?" Ra's asks, in the darkest voice I've ever heard him use. I swallow, closing my eyes for a second and  _making_ myself remember that this Ra's is  _not_ the one who's training me. This isn't the side of him that touches my shoulder with the  _gentlest_ of fingers when I need a moment to breathe, or who looks at me with this glint of pride in his eyes whenever I pull off a more difficult move. This is Ra's al Ghul, the  _Demon's Head,_  the fucking  _centuries_ old man who can stand up to the Owl in single combat. He's dangerous, and deadly, and the Owl is his  _enemy_.

"I don't start battles I can't win," the Owl answers, and I can hear the crunch of glass so he  _must_ be moving, but  _god_ I can't turn around. It is  _fucked up_ , but the cage of Grayson's arms is somehow better than facing the man on that screen. It's something that feels safer, that feels like a corner to hide in instead of something trapping me in.

"Which is why you shouldn't start this one." Ra's' counter is sharp, direct. "You have your connections, Shadow, and I have mine. This will be a war the likes of which you've never seen, and over what? Two boys? What threat are they to you?"

There's silence, and then the Owl makes a sound that I've  _never_ heard, one that cuts down to my heart and fucking  _stabs_.

He  _laughs_.

"Threat?  _Amusing_. I want the two of them dead for choosing to betray me, to feel their hearts stop under my hands, but that is simply a  _desire_. Sooner or later I will catch them, and what I did to my street rat," my heart skips a beat, " _Jason_ , will  _pale_ in comparison to the  _agony_ he will suffer before I allow him to die."

I can barely breathe through the fear, and I clench my hands in the fabric covering Grayson's sides. I can feel myself trembling, and for the life of me I can't  _stop_. Now I know, right? Now I  _know_ what happens if I end up back in the Owl's hands. He'll break me for real this time, he won't let me walk out with just scars and bruises. He'll take me apart until there's nothing left, torture me until he decides it's enough. Days, weeks,  _months?_ God,  _years?_

"Speaking of dying," the Owl continues, and there's a nasty,  _cruel_  note to his voice, "how is  _Richard?_ "

What?

Grayson goes very, very still against me, muscles locking for a long few moments before they ease. I blink, raising my head off his shoulder to look at him. He's staring past me, at the screen, but his eyes flick to mine when my head is fully raised. There's nothing in his expression to give me any clue what he's thinking, or what the Owl is talking about.

"Dick?" I ask, but the Owl continues before he has a chance to answer.

"Still alive, by my timeline, but he's certainly not any use to you, Ra's. At this point the damage should be enough to have forced him to cease any kind of strenuous physical exercise, in addition to causing fairly regular attacks. You would  _never_ have allowed him to use one of your Lazarus Pits, Ra's, so what's it like watching him die while knowing you could save him?"

"Die?" I echo, staring at Grayson.

"Jason, I—"

"The risks outweigh the benefits," Ra's says behind me, "the decision was made."

I pull out of Grayson's arms, taking a step back. "Dick, what are they talking about?" I ask, and he glances behind me. No.  _No_. Tell me it's not. Tell me he's  _not_. Something,  _anything_ other than this nasty suspicion settling into my chest.

Grayson watches me for a second, and that suspicion settles into fact before he even speaks. "My fight with Bruce," he starts, and I can hear Ra's' voice overlapping his but I have no  _idea_ what the hero is saying, "and whatever he sprayed me with. The damage was too severe."

"You're dying," I finish, and the words sink into my chest like bullets.

"Yes," he confirms. "There's nothing I can do about it."

_No_. "And you, you didn't think to fucking  _mention_ this?" Everything feels too sharp, too clear, and god why didn't I  _notice?_ Grayson has dark circles under his eyes, and everything but the way he acts screams  _exhaustion_. All those times he wasn't around, was that for real or was that him recovering from— "Attacks? What the  _hell_ is going on?"

"It's lung damage," Grayson explains softly,  _way_ too steadily to be someone talking about how they're  _dying_. "There are periods, triggered by various things, where it's difficult to breathe. I wanted you to settle in before I told you."

A bark of laughter tears itself out of my throat, the kind of laughter that the Jokester is  _made_ of. When you laugh because the world is just so  _fucked up_ , so  _cruel_ , that how could you  _not?_ Settle in? Yeah  _right_. Settle in to  _what?_ Ra's, Talia? This is a means to an end, a pit stop, not a permanent thing. I  _never_ considered this to be something that would last forever; I've had  _enough_ of working for people.

Grayson is dying. He's fucking  _dying_. "How long?" I ask absently, raising a hand to pull through my hair and not even  _caring_ that it's still damp. It's been what, twenty minutes, a half an hour? How did everything fall apart so  _fast?_

"Seven months," he answers, and something in me freezes and stutters to a halt. "But that was a guessed time, and a time for death not, incapacitation." The way he says it is clipped, a little bit more like someone's tone  _should_ be, but still not nearly as… as  _caring_ as it should be. Seven months;  _at most_ , whispers some part of my mind.

He didn't  _tell me_. It's been over a year since we met, since we ended up on Owlman's most wanted list, and he didn't fucking  _tell me he was dying_.

"How long have you known?" I demand, holding his gaze.

"A little under five months." Before we left. Before the—

Son of a  _bitch_. "The trip to Metropolis," I fill in. Rage gathers in my stomach, burning and taking over my mind, and my hands clench. "So let me get this straight. You've known you were going to die for  _five months_ , and you didn't bother to  _fucking_ tell me?!" It's not quite a shout, but it's close. "You let me spend all this time thinking everything was fine, that we were just going to finish up here and go off to some other part of the world, or go after the Owl?! What the  _hell_ , Dick?!"

It's a dangerous anger, one fueled by pain, and fear, that begs for violence as a distraction. It's a type I'm  _very_ familiar with, but usually not this strongly, and never with this stabbing twist behind it.

_("You shouldn't trust me,"_ my mind throws at me like a dagger, Grayson's voice bouncing inside my skull.)

"And  _now_ what?" I snarl, letting the anger take control of my voice. "You want me to what, stay  _here?_ Go after the Owl on my  _own?_ What the hell are you leaving me with, Dick?!"

Grayson weathers my words, not showing anything I can use to figure out a reaction. I  _hate_ that he can shut himself off from me so effectively, though I guess now I shouldn't be fucking surprised by it. I imagine it probably takes a lot of  _fucking_ control to hide  _dying_ from someone while you let them lean on you and count you as a… a  _friend_.

"Your best chance is joining a team," Grayson says, and my jaw clenches down tight enough that I have to spit my words through gritted teeth.

"That'd be  _suicide_ for them  _and_ me,  _Dick_ , and that's assuming anyone would take a fucking ex-Talon hunted by the Owl. It doesn't  _matter_ how useful I am and you damn well know it, there's not a team out there that would take me or could  _survive_ it."

The Owl is scary to begin with, but add in his full concentration, and all his resources, and he's a fucking  _monster_. If it wasn't for the damn pride factor, most of his heroes would have been dead a long time ago. But me being on a team, fighting him or anyone else, that would be  _way_ more damaging to his reputation than calling in favors to get everyone who knows who I am killed before dragging me off.

"I didn't—"

"Shut the  _fuck_ up!" I shout, then jerk back as soon as I realize I've said it. My lower back hits the edge of the computers, and I close both hands over the metal and plastic, squeezing my eyes shut. "How—" I clench down harder on the computer's edge, prying my eyes open again to look across the four or so feet between me and Grayson. "How am I supposed to  _trust_ ," the word stings on my tongue like it's made of  _fucking_ acid, "anything you've told me,  _Grayson?_ " I demand. "If you can sit there and fucking lie to my face about this, what  _else_ have you lied to me about?"

"Nothing," Grayson says sharply, instantly.

"Yeah, that's  _great_." I can't help the bitter sarcasm in my voice. "And I'm supposed to take your  _word_ on that? We just fucking established you've been lying to me for five months about something  _damn_ important, and apparently I couldn't tell the difference even with it staring me in the face! And you want me to just trust that  _now_ you're telling the truth?! Go to hell."

I want to  _leave_. I want the hell out of this room and I want to go lock myself somewhere safer, somewhere I can vent the anger and the sick,  _painful_  ache somewhere in my stomach. Somewhere I don't have to look at Grayson and I don't have to be reminded every  _fucking_ second that everything he's told me might have been a lie. How the fuck do I know what to believe? How do I filter out the truth from the lies when I can't even read him most of the time? How the  _fuck_ do I figure out the difference between when he was gone from my training to do something, or when he was having one of these 'attacks' and stayed away so I wouldn't know? So he could keep me in the fucking  _dark_.

_This_. This is what his earlier breakdown was about. Son of a bitch, son of a  _bitch_. The words run on repeat in my mind as the computer creaks in complaint at my grip. I told him I trusted him, and the fucking  _bastard_ has been lying to me all this time and  _knew_ he didn't deserve it.

"Were you  _ever_ going to tell me?" I demand through my teeth, staring at the floor because if I look at Grayson right now I'm going to do something stupid that's going to end with one or both of us unconscious or bleeding.

"Yes," Grayson says softly, and somehow I manage to hold the computer even tighter, until my fingers ache from the pressure. "Jas—"

"Don't," I snarl, "I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

Silence falls and I stare at the floor between us, blood rushing through my ears. I  _can't_  right now. I can't listen to another word out of his mouth, I  _can't_ without some kind of violence between us, and… Would I win? If the Owl was right, then Grayson can't do much of anything physical right now — which is why after Metropolis he got defensive,  _efficient_ , son of a  _bitch_  — and if I let these urges out and went at him, hit him until he was bleeding and let the violence soothe the  _pain_ , he probably couldn't stop me.

That's… That's a  _dangerous_ thought.

I took out my frustration through violence all the  _time_ in Gotham. Gangs were easy targets, and feeling bone snap under my fists and watching blood spray was soothing, it felt  _good_ to be in control of someone else like that. Until I came back to myself, and remembered that what I was hitting was a  _person_ , not just a target.

I  _can't_ let myself do that again, no matter how much Grayson might  _deserve_ it. Even if he can't  _stop_ me. If I let myself back into that mindless kind of violence, I don't know if I could ever drag myself back out of it. I don't know if I could  _stop_ before I broke something important, or damaged something that couldn't be healed. I could kill him. (And he's already dying so what's the fucking  _point_ in that?)

But I  _want_ to.

I want to hurt him until he knows what this  _feels_ like, what it's like to think you can trust someone and then just have them rip it out from under you. I  _trusted_ him. God, I'm such a fucking  _idiot_. You'd think after the Owl, after all the bullshit I went through in Crime Alley even  _before_ him, I'd know not to trust. Not anyone, not at all. Everyone lies, everyone in the world is a selfish  _asshole_ , and no one is worth letting my walls down for. Not  _ever_.

I don't know how long we stand there, as I try not to hurt him and the silence burns around us with unsaid words. Eventually, there's a sharp beep, mechanical sounding, and the door to my left slides open with a faint hiss of released air. The computers hum, shutting down behind me, and I drag my gaze off the floor to look up. Ra's stands in the doorway, and for once the hero looks totally solemn. No faint smile, no tiny smirk.

His eyes flick from me to Grayson, one eyebrow arching, and then he gives a soft sigh. "He's gone," Ra's says softly, stepping fully into the panic room, "all my defensive systems agree. I've been prepared for some time now, and it will take him a while to muster enough strength to even attempt a siege on me here. It's safe for now."

I think Grayson nods, the movement at the edge of my peripheral vision seems to be something like that, but I just grit my teeth and lower my eyes again. Ra's knew, and he didn't tell me  _either_ , but at least I didn't  _expect_ him to be honest with me. Sure, he's a hero and they're usually pretty 'truth and justice before all else,' but Ra's is his own category of hero. He'd lie to me without a second thought if he thought it was for my own good, or it benefited  _him_  in some way. I  _knew_ that.

I hear footsteps — bare feet against concrete;  _Grayson_  — but I don't look up. To  _hell_ with him, let the bastard go off and lie to someone  _else_. They fade away, and I sweep my gaze over the floor to make  _sure_ before I look up, only finding Ra's' boots and the hem of his robes. It's just us.

"Jason," Ra's greets, when I look up at him. He's studying me, looking at me in that way he passed on to Talia; like he can see straight through me and doesn't need me to let my guard down to know  _everything_. I jerk my head in something like a nod, forcing my hands to relax some as my fingers start to genuinely hurt from being clenched down on the edge of the computer banks so hard. Ra's gives another soft sigh, something in his eyes that I'm too rattled to understand. "Come with me," he orders, turning to sweep out of the room without even a backwards glance.

I stare for a second, but then I stutter into action with one jerky first step and follow. I  _hate_ it when Ra's and Talia do this, just leave and expect me to play along and go with them, but I'm still  _falling_ for it. There's something commanding about Ra's that would make me feel like an  _idiot_  if I just stood there and  _didn't_ follow.

His robes billow out behind him as he leads the way out of the corner of the base that this room is squirreled away in. He doesn't turn, doesn't look back, just strides along until we're standing in the middle of one of the training rooms. Then he finally turns to me with one arched eyebrow.

"Shut the door," he commands, and confused but too shaken to really put effort into this, I do it. It clicks shut, and when I turn back Ra's is tossing his robes to one side, off the mats. Underneath he's in a fairly tight fitting suit of black, dark green, and gold, made of comfortable looking fabric that looks reinforced in several places. It's obviously designed as something easier to fight in than the heavy robes that are usually over it.

That's new. I've only seen Ra's without the outer robes when he was in Gotham, and that was only a couple of times.

Ra's' eyes are cool, focused in a way that's honestly pretty damn scary, and I feel myself shifting into a slightly more defensible stance without even really thinking about it. I take one cautious step forward, feeling the floor beneath my feet transition from cool wood to the slight give of the mats. I can't help the way I'm standing, angled to one side to be less of a target, my muscles forced into an ease I don't feel.

"What?" I ask, my tone sharp and wary. Telling, but right now everything I fucking do is telling so who  _cares?_

"We're going to spar," Ra's informs me, and I give a snort.

"Yeah, that's great but I do—  _holy fuck!_ " The boot that slices through the air about half an inch away from my face — and only that far because Ra's was a bit away and I have  _damn_ good reflexes — immediately snaps me into instinctive combat. I jerk away, but not fast enough for Ra's' second kick to miss me.

It slams into the center of my chest, the short heel digging in, and I get knocked back. I stagger, gasping for air, and feel the wall at my back a moment before Ra's' fingers close over my throat and slam my head back against it. He holds me easily, pushing up to force my neck to curve back and my head to tilt up so I can only see the ceiling. I choke, flailing as my training abandons me for a moment. It clicks back in, and my lips curl in a snarl as I kick out at him, aiming for a knee or if I'm really lucky, the fucker's  _crotch_.

I feel Ra's deflect the blow with his free hand, and his fingers tighten for a moment before he abruptly releases me. I drag air in, stifling the natural coughs that my body wants to give and dropping my head to look at Ra's as he moves away from me. He turns back to me the moment he's at the center of the room, one eyebrow up again in a look that feels completely dismissive.

"What the  _fuck,_ Ra's?" I demand, rubbing at the aching spot where he kicked me.

"Again." His voice is as cool as his eyes. Not cold and  _disgusted_ like the Owl's, but cool and uninterested. Detached. What the  _hell?_

I push off the wall, approaching him cautiously, and he stands there waiting for me. The moment I'm on the mats he moves, and I shift to the outside and away from the punch aimed at just the right height to hit my  _throat_. I grit my teeth and aim a return strike at his side, but his outstretched arm grabs mine and drags me forward and into a raised knee that kills any hope of air that I had. I drop, clutching at my side as I try and breathe, and I can feel and hear him circle me. There's a change of sound as he strays onto the wood behind me and his heels click more definitively against the harder surface.

"Again," comes the order, and I drag myself up without thinking about it, pushing to my feet. This time I move first, throwing a punch at his head that he slips away from, slamming an elbow into my exposed side as he goes past. I let out a grunt of pain but turn with him, moving with the impact and slipping one foot back to spin, blocking a punch with one arm and lashing out with the other, towards his face. Before I can realize the  _terrible_ idea that it is, and pull back, Ra's grabs the wrist of my attacking hand and  _twists_.

I have time for about a single thought of  _oh fuck_ , before the twist forces my arm out straight, dragging my shoulder forward and turning my torso down and away. My other arm rises automatically, to give some kind of protection to my torso and face, but the sharp, terrifyingly  _precise_ strike to the back of my twisted shoulder blanks out my world with pain for a moment. I give a shout, the pain quickly followed by a tingling numbness as I lose most feeling in that arm.

Ra's' foot snaps into the back of my knee and it crumples, forcing me to the floor where he releases my wrist and shoves me back with that same foot to my ribs. I hit the mat hard, my teeth clenching as pain flares sharp in my shoulder blade, but without relieving the numbness in the rest of my arm.

"Again."

" _Fuck_ you," I gasp up at him, glaring and letting my teeth bare. It's not a good  _idea_ to curse at someone who took me apart so easily, but I can't help it. I'm not a punching bag for Ra's to work out whatever the fuck the Owl brought up; I will  _never_ be that for anyone,  _ever again._ I shift, getting my other arm under me but having to squeeze my eyes shut for a second at the pain that feels like Ra's drove a fucking  _knife_  into my shoulder. What did he  _do_ to me?

"This," Ra's says flatly, as I resist the urge to clutch at my shoulder, "is a legitimate reason for anger."

"What are you talking about?" I demand, pulling my legs underneath me and gathering myself back together. My chest aches, a lot worse than my right side does from the elbow and the foot, and I can't fucking  _move_  without my shoulder screaming at me. Nothing's broken, there was definitely no crack of bone, so it must be some kind of targeted nerve damage to both be this painful and cut off most feeling in my arm.

"Grayson is  _dying_ ," Ra's' tone is sharply disappointed, and just that makes me cringe before the words even register, "and you're apparently too absorbed in your own anger, and in your  _selfish,_ inflated pain of him not telling you, to recall that. Would  _you_ have told him, Jason, if your positions were reversed?"

I draw in a sharp breath, glaring. "Of c—"

" _Think_  before you answer that, Jason," Ra's orders, cutting me off and staring down at me. I snarl, a wordless sound of anger and frustration, but click my mouth shut and look away, across the room.

Of  _course_  I would have told Grayson. If it had been  _me_ that the Owl crippled instead of him, of fucking  _course_ I would have told him that I was dying. I would have done it the  _second_  I knew, so he could— So he could leave?

Oh.

If I was dying, if there was nothing that could save me,  _would_ I have told Grayson before I was absolutely,  _completely_ sure that he wasn't going to cut and run? If there was a chance that telling him could mean that he would have given up and left me alone, would I have had the guts to? I… I don't know. Even though he's a dishonest  _bastard_ , Grayson is important, he understands me in a way no one else does and maybe never will. Could I have stomached losing him, or would I have bitten my tongue and suffered it all in silence until there wasn't a choice anymore? Just to stay close, just to keep him for that little bit longer.

But, Grayson doesn't feel that way about me, right? Well, fuck, how would I  _know?_ It's not like Grayson shares much about himself, and it's not like I can read him the way he can read me. That's been  _proved_. I have no  _idea_ what he thinks of me, not really, and definitely not anymore. I never stopped to think how he thought about  _me_ , I was way too concerned with what I was feeling around  _him_.

Fuck, Ra's is right. I'm a selfish  _dick_.

What would I even have done, if Grayson had told me he was dying back in Gotham, while we were with the Jokester? I hadn't figured things out then, I didn't think of him the same way. What  _would_ I have done? At that point I was convinced that Grayson was the only real thing standing between me and the Owl, the  _only_ thing I had that could protect me. If he'd told me, would that have destroyed me? I definitely would have been freaked out, I might have even tried to see if there was any possible way that I could bargain my way back into the Owl's favor. I can't honestly say that I'm sure I wouldn't have. Was Grayson  _right_  not to tell me?

"No," I answer, grudgingly, without looking up at Ra's. "I… probably not."

"Get up, Jason," Ra's demands, still disappointed but not in a pointed way like before. I let my left hand move to cradle my right shoulder, folding my legs to push up to to my feet, my fingers contracting over my arm as pain flares when it gets jostled. I still don't look at Ra's, not wanting to see whatever's in his eyes. "He's  _dying_ ," Ra's says softly. "If you believe this is easy for him, regardless of what he may pretend, you are wrong. Put your anger aside, Jason, go talk to him." I'm about to protest (I'm not sure if I can talk to Grayson right now without having to either hit something or hide) when Ra's continues, with faint challenge in his voice. "If you see him as anything but a convenient ally, that is."

My eyes snap over to look at Ra's, but words fail me. I don't know how to put into words this sudden  _refusal_ of Ra's' challenge, not out loud. Of  _course_ Grayson is more than convenient. He saved my life, he got me out from under the Owl, he trained me, he  _understands_ me.

…

Fuck.

Ra's' lips curl into a faint smirk, and he nods over at the door to my left. "Go."

I hesitate a second, trying to find some way to figure out how to thank Ra's for… whatever the hell this was. Some kind of violence to ground me, to force me to focus and calm down before shoving me back at the problems eating me. It's not exactly normal, but I can't say that I would have listened to him if he'd just tried to talk to me. Violence makes me listen,  _pain_ makes me focus.

Fuck it.

I head for the door, trying to ignore the weight of Ra's' stare on my back. I slip out, pulling the door closed behind me so I'll at least get some warning if Ra's follows me, and head down the corridors towards the barrack rooms section of this base. It's a familiar route now, since I've taken it so many times. It's probably good that I know it without having to think about it, my mind's wandering too much to focus right now.

It's fucking pointless, but I can't help trying to plan out the conversation I'm about to have with Grayson. Of course, nothing I think of sounds like him. Sure, I can plan out a great, perfect thing where he says everything I want him to, but that's  _not_ going to happen. Grayson never seems to react the way I think he will. What's the damn point in planning?

It feels like barely any time at all before I'm standing in front of Grayson's door, and I take in one short, sharp breath before reaching forward with my good arm and knocking at the door. I've faced down nastier things, right? I can handle one conversation with another ex-Talon, I can do that.

Shit, it's probably too late to turn and leave.

The door opens, and even to me it's a seriously telling sign that it just opens and Grayson doesn't peer around the side and check who it is before he gives up the advantage of the barrier. He stills, staring at me for a moment, and then his gaze flicks to either side of me, down the corridor in both directions. I bite my tongue, studying his face and the way he's holding himself. He looks half supported by the door, and the fact that he isn't standing quite right — shoulders back and spine perfectly straight,  _perfect_ posture — and that his shoulders are drawn just a little inwards is… Fuck, how did I miss this?

"Can I come in?" I ask, wincing at how small my voice sounds. He looks at me for another few moments before nodding, shifting to one side to give me the space to enter. I guess him not slamming the door in my face is something at least. I take the invitation, haltingly stepping inside his room, and he closes the door and locks it. He stays there as I turn towards him, one shoulder against the door and part of his weight leaning against it. He's not meeting my eyes.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," he says quietly, and  _fuck_ , he sounds  _wrecked_. There's a definite rasp to his voice that I should have paid attention to, an exhaustion in his tone that's  _obvious_. Maybe he's just not hiding it anymore, maybe I'm not the fucking oblivious  _idiot_ I feel like.

Fuck, how bad must this be if it's this obvious? Grayson doesn't just  _show_ things like this. For fuck's sake he walked around on a not-quite-healed broken leg for months, and it didn't even show.  _Anyone_ could look at him right now and and see that he's fucked up. I  _should have_.

"I'm sorry." It falls out of my mouth before I can think about it, and Grayson's eyes flick up to meet mine. "I should have—" I swallow, fighting back the nerves trying to get me to stop, to just shut my mouth and let this fall apart completely. "You should have told me, yeah, but  _I_  should've noticed too. I guess we're both fuck-ups, huh?"

Grayson shakes his head as he swallows. "No, Jason, you're right to be angry—"

"I'm  _not_ ," I interrupt, my jaw clenching as his words hit something in me that snarls and jerks like a dog, baring teeth at the fucking  _thought_ that I have any damn right to be angry with Grayson when he's so bad off. "What does it fucking matter, Dick? You lied to me. Alright,  _fine_. So what? We were  _Talons_ , of fucking  _course_ we lie. Maybe we shouldn't do it to each other, but neither of us have a fucking  _clue_ how this is supposed to work, right? It's not like the Owl left us with any kind of ability to fucking  _talk_ to people like normal human beings."

I brace my working hand on my hip for something to hold onto, to steady myself, huffing out a breath and echoing the shake of his head. "I can't read you," I admit, grudgingly, "and that frustrates the hell out of me, but that's not  _your_ fault, Dick. I don't think you get me right all the time either, and half the time  _I_ don't know why the fuck I feel like I do so I don't know how  _you_ could. I don't think I would have told you if  _I_ was dying, so how can I expect  _you_ to do what I don't know if  _I_ could?"

"It's not the same," Grayson tries to insert, but I snarl at him and he closes his mouth again.

"The  _hell_  it's not," I snap, glaring at him for a second. "I have no damn right to be angry at you, Dick, and I'm not totally sure I was even angry at  _you_  anyway. I…" I swallow past the lump that rises in my throat, shoving past the trained bits of me that try and strangle my next words. "I'm fucking  _terrified_ , Dick," I admit. "You're dying, and I'm going to be on my own. What the fuck am I supposed to do then? I'm not one of them." I nod at the door behind him, in some attempt at indicating Ra's, or Talia. "I'm not a  _hero_. I'm a fucked up, murdering,  _bastard_ , and everyone knows it. You're the only person who doesn't care, and I'm so fucking afraid of what's going to happen when you're gone. I don't want to be on my own, Dick, I don't know if I can survive it. And  _fuck_ , you know me. Anger… Anger lets me not think about how terrified I am, it lets me blank everything out and not have to deal with it. I was afraid, so I got pissed, and you were the closest target. It was a shit thing to do."

Grayson swallows, and I watch his throat work. "You don't have to be afraid, Jason." His voice is soft, but the rasp to it makes it feel weaker, quiet by necessity and not choice. It shakes me,  _scares_ me, to think of Grayson being that at the mercy of his own body. "Ra's, Talia, they'll take care of you."

"Sure, by keeping me here forever." I snort, shaking my head again. "I can't do that, Dick, and I'm fucking  _done_ with working for other people anyway. I'm  _never_ going to put someone else in charge of me ever again." He doesn't answer, and I dip my head for a moment. "I don't like this," I offer, "this  _thing_ between us. Can we just go back to how it was before tonight, Dick? Nothing's  _changed_."

His lips flickers in a tiny smile after a moment, and he inclines his head in what looks like an accepting gesture. "I'd like that," he confesses, meeting my eyes again. "This is probably something we should finish discussing, though."

"Can we do it sitting down?" I counter, and he pauses for a moment, but nods. I watch him straighten up, off the door, and I can see the faint tremble in his shoulders as he moves towards the bed. Just a little stiff, a little off, and  _wrong_. I follow him, and the lump in my throat returns as he slips into the bed, taking a seat against the wall. To a normal person it's fine, it looks  _fine_ , but to me his movements are careful and I've never seen him like that before. I hesitate a moment before joining him, lying down on my side, facing him.

It doesn't feel like it did earlier, but it's something, god it's  _something_.

"How bad is it?" I ask, when we're settled, and Grayson gives an actual sigh, even if it is tiny.

"Bad." The answer isn't surprising, but it still makes me wince.

"Painful?"

"Somewhat; pain doesn't mean much to me. It's…" He pauses, and I turn my head to look up at him, finding him staring across the room. "The attacks cripple me, I lose almost all ability to breathe or consciously move for their duration, and that makes me very nearly helpless. That's the worst of it, the rest I can deal with."

The thought makes me cringe, and he looks back down at me. Yeah, that would freak me out, too. Being helpless is… bad. Very bad.

"There has to be  _something_ we can do," I insist. "It's just physical damage right? That's not so hard to fix with magic, or a healing metahuman."

Grayson shakes his head, giving a small lift of the shoulder nearest me. "I've run through the options, Jason; at least a dozen times. There isn't anything."

"Run  _me_  through them." Maybe there's something he missed, or something he doesn't understand like I do, or…  _something_.  _Any_ way to keep him alive.

"Jason," Grayson starts, with a faintly resigned tone.

"Just  _do_ it," I snap, not letting him finish. I  _hate_ that tone on him, hate the way it leaks into his already weakened voice and makes him sound like he's giving up. I'm  _not_ letting him do that. No,  _fuck_ no. He is  _not_ giving up on me if I have anything to say about it, and I damn well  _do_.

He sighs, a real noise this time, and laces his hands together on his lap as he tilts his head back against the wall. His eyes flick closed. "I went to Luthor, that's why I was in Metropolis. He said there was no scientific treatment for my injuries, not any that he knew of, anyway."

As if actual medical professionals are the real healers in our world. Sure, they're a stopgap, and I guess they've got some use, but the  _real_ healers are the metahumans, and the magicians. The Owl valued  _their_ favors the highest, for the sake of versatility and actual practical usefulness. Ultraman can hit things, but at the end of the day he's not much use for anything but lifting heavy shit and brute force approaches. A magic user, though?  _Those_  bastards can do all kinds of things, and most of the time it's  _damn_ useful, even if anyone with the right counterspell or enough power could lay them out in no time flat.

Like Zatanna, or Dr. Fate, or any of the other magical criminals I remember seeing on TV before the Owl took me. Those bastards can do some seriously scary shit.

"What about metahumans?" I ask.

"No," Grayson answers instantly. "Most of the world still thinks I'm dead, outside of the higher levels of heroes, and those ones only know me as Talon. You see how Ra's considers me, even though he knows I'm not his enemy anymore. It's more than likely that any hero who found out I was still alive, as well as with another previous Talon, would do their best to kill us both. The villains, criminals, wouldn't be any better. Most of them know better than to risk crossing Bruce, especially in a way so big, and the ones that  _would_  risk it wouldn't help us. They'd take both of us apart and throw us up in front of the whole world to prove that Bruce isn't as infallible as he seems."

It stings how true that is. Maybe the Jokester understands us a little, or the heroes he directly talks to, but it's not like the Jokester's exactly a social name. He's big, he's well known, but most of the hero community doesn't keep in direct contact with him. From what I remember, Ra's handles most of the relations between the Gotham heroes and everyone else. He's not directly in Gotham, so it's easier for him to get messages to, or speak with, other heroes without fear of the Owl listening in.

Villains, on the other hand, are a screwed up bunch. The Crime Syndicate is one thing, or the dozens of other smaller teams that are forced to work under one of the major names, but there's no  _trust_ in those. It's a  _forced_ thing _._ If the smaller ones could be bigger, take out the heads of their particular organization, they damn well would. It's a biting, clawing,  _mess_ of shaky truces and blackmail. The Owl rules most of those groups. Not officially, but everyone knows that Ultraman doesn't  _actually_ rule the Crime Syndicate. If the Owl wants something done, Ultraman  _does it_.

You just don't cross a guy, a fucking  _normal human_ , who can get a Kryptonian to do what he wants. Who can sleep with the super powered  _wife_ of probably the most powerful murderer on the planet and just get away with it free and clear, without a  _damn_ thing happening to him.

There are probably only a few people who would cross the Owl to do anything with us, and they wouldn't  _heal_ us. They'd torture us, beat us, and drag us in to throw at Owlman's feet. Wouldn't  _that_ be a way to prove that the Owl isn't all powerful, that there are  _some_ things that are out from under even his control?

But that doesn't mean all our choices are gone.

"All we need is the metahuman," I argue. "Ra's might throw a fit, but we could hold one hostage. You and I know enough to take down just about anyone."

"Maybe," Grayson concedes, "but most metahumans with the capability for healing are kept under extreme guard by the faction that controls them, or have other powers that make them formidable in their own right."

"We were trained to fight metahumans, Dick," I snap, pushing myself up on my good arm and biting back the wince when my other shoulder sends another knife of pain at me. Seriously, what the  _fuck_ did Ra's do? "We know  _how_. They rely too heavily on the powers they have, they get cocky and they get  _arrogant,_  and none of them ever stop to think that one normal human can take them."

I've taken down a  _lot_ of metahumans over the years. It was one of the things the Owl made  _damn_ sure I knew how to do, and one of the very few parts of his training that I really  _liked_ the outcome of. It makes you feel like a  _god_. The idea that I was just some random, normal teenager who could take out guys who could throw fire from their hands, or run at over the speed of sound, or bend metal and lift cars with their bare hands. I could take them down, and I was just a kid with a couple knives and some basic tools.

Metahumans don't usually consider the idea that we train harder, we push  _farther_ , because we have to be able to stand up to them. There's a damn  _reason_  everyone is so scared of the Owl.

"Maybe it's kinda risky," I offer, "but we could do it. You  _know_ we could."

"I know that the two of us could almost undoubtedly subdue a single metahuman, yes." His voice is a little sharper, and he opens his eyes and looks down at me. "But their team, and the friends they might have? Even after that, we'd have to convince them that healing me was their only option, and threaten them with something bad enough that they wouldn't just attack us again once we let them use powers. That's not an easy thing to do."

"But—"

"And after that?" Grayson cuts me off, and I blink up at him in surprise. "If we do get me healed, then what? Do we kill whatever metahuman we acquire? There's no other way to stop them from telling the entire world that the two of us are alive. Bruce wouldn't rest until we were both dead."

"You're dying anyway," I snap, "at least that way we both have a  _chance_ at living. If the Owl publicly hunts us, maybe the heroes will help. That'd be one hell of a recommendation that we're not their enemies anymore. We could play helpless, we could make their  _stupid_  morals work for  _us_ for once."

"That's not the  _point_ ," Grayson says with a tiny hint of frustration. "If Bruce hunts us, it's not just  _him_ , Jason. If we become public figures, everyone in the  _world_ comes after us. Bruce's pawns track us down to try for any kind of favor they can get, everyone else's pawns track us to try and prove that they can do  _better_ , or to bargain favors or information out of him in exchange for us. The heroes might try and find us too, but  _protect_ us? No, they'd never do that. If they think Bruce wants us dead, then they'll think that we know things they could make use of."

I hold his gaze as he shakes his head.

"And they'd be  _right_ , Jason. The information we have would be nearly invaluable to anyone looking to take the fight to the Owl, let alone all the information and secrets we know about everyone  _else_. I don't know how much you remember, but I could name the identity and day job of nearly every hero or villain out there, and for a good number of them I could give detailed plans of their patterns, too. I could tell someone looking to make a name  _exactly_ what a metahuman's weakness was, and what the most effective way to take them out would be.

"Can you  _imagine_ the lengths a hero might go to, to get the kind of insider information the two of us have? We've been lucky so far. The Jokester didn't care, or didn't ask, and Ra's already knows almost anything we could tell him. He doesn't need us. But the rest of them? It would be like throwing blood in the water in the middle of a dozen sharks, Jason. We'd be lucky to come out at all, let alone in one piece."

"There has to be  _something_  we can do," I insist, again. Clinging to the hope that there's something we overlooked. Some ridiculously kind hermit somewhere, or some villain that might heal us just to  _spite_ the Owl. Yeah,  _right_. "What about magic items?"

He raises an eyebrow in a look that almost reminds me of Ra's. "Do  _you_ know where any handy ones are?" he asks dryly. "Or how to use any of them? It comes back to the same question of needing some other person's help, and the Jokester's group doesn't have a resident magic user, even if one would agree. Ra's already made his stance clear, too. He's not going to help me survive, the world is better off without me in it."

" _Fuck_ him," I snarl, spitting the words without monitoring them first. "There's a lot of people that the  _world_ would be better off without; the whole Crime Syndicate and  _both_ of us, to start. He doesn't get to pick and choose favorites like this, it's bullshit."

"It's also his choice," Grayson points out, lowering the brow and wincing as he breathes in. I can hear it catch, see the stutter in the rise of his chest before it evens out. It freezes me for a second. "We can't  _make_ Ra's do anything, Jason," he says after he's recovered from the moment. "If we could, I would have gotten the location and details of how to use the Lazarus Pits he controls out of him the day we got here. There's nothing either of us can do."

I shove up, twisting to end the movement by slamming my back against the wall in leashed violence as I sit. Probably harder than I should have. "This is fucking  _bullshit_ ," I hiss out, pressing my shoulder into Grayson's. "This never would have happened if you didn't get me out of there. You could have just gone on with your life."

It all comes down to  _me_ , doesn't it? Grayson pulled off the impossible, he escaped the Owl cleanly and had a  _life_ before the Jokester called him back in to come by for me. If he'd ignored the call, if I'd never gotten captured or if I'd just had the sense to  _die_ in the Owl's training, Grayson would be  _fine_. He'd never have tried to help me, he'd never have gotten back in a fight with the Owl, never would have taken that lungful of  _poison_. He'd be living free, away from the rest of the world and anyone who could hurt him. Not sitting next to me while his body slowly kills him from the inside out.

"Don't  _go_ there, Jason," Grayson says, reaching over and taking my left hand in his. It still freaks some part of me out, but more than anything else it just  _hurts_. The thought that this, all of this, is just going to end is  _painful_. I didn't know I could be this attached to a person. "There's no point in trying to fix the past, not unless you know you can change it." He pauses, and my brain clicks into motion for one stunning moment before he sharply inserts, "And we  _can't_ , Jason.  _No_." I bite my tongue, but shove the rest of it away and grip his hand back instead.

"Then  _what?_ " I ask. "What am I supposed to do, Dick?" My words come out pleading, begging for an answer, and I can't help the shudder that slices down my back like a blade. Nausea rises sharp for a moment before I swallow it down.

"I don't know," he admits. "You're right, a team wouldn't work. Even if you could hide as someone else, take a name other than Jason, or Talon, they'd find out eventually. Or, Bruce would kill them all before they got the chance. A team is too public. At least, any of the regular teams." His eyes narrow just a touch, and his gaze drops to the bed between us.

"What?" I press, when he doesn't speak for a decent handful of seconds (seventeen, precisely,  _damn_  my ability to keep time). "You have an idea?"

"Maybe," he allows, and looks back up at me. "Any team that could take you would have to be very good, and not tied to any one city or area. They'd have to move nearly constantly, every two or three weeks at least, and most don't. What about  _creating_ a team?"

That's… That's  _insane_. " _Creating_ a team?" I ask incredulously. "With  _who?_ Who the hell would commit to a suicidal thing like that?"

He gives a flicker of a smile. "I might have a candidate in mind, to start with. What about Arsenal?"

My mind throws a refusal to the tip of my tongue, and then grinds to a halt. Wait,  _Arsenal?_ He…

"Fuck," I mutter, "that could work."

Arsenal — Roy —  _just_ got thrown out by Red Archer, right? I remember, Grayson told me that. He had a kid with some hero; Cheshire, I think? There's no way that Red would take him back now, especially not after that circulates out to everyone. The Crime Syndicate, even its added members and not the big leagues like the Owl, or Johnny Quick, aren't big into forgiveness. If someone betrays you, you either  _kill_ them or you  _ruin_  them _._ Anything else would be taken as weakness. Even if Red wanted to take Arsenal back after this, he couldn't without losing a mountain of respect and probably starting a mutiny against himself.

And Arsenal, he's on the streets. He's on his own, he's probably  _pissed_ at the world — but I don't know him, so I can't really  _promise_ that — and looking to wreck some people. He's also an outcast for the masked community. The heroes wouldn't touch him, not with a background like that, and the Crime Syndicate will make sure that none of the criminals touch him either. Red Archer is a personal favorite tool of the Owl's, and the Owl will make sure that no one so much as  _thinks_ about taking his disowned sidekick in. No one except insane, suicidal idiots like us, anyway. Man, that must  _suck_ for him.

Yeah, he might be interested in making a few friends right now.

"You know him, right?" I ask, and Grayson nods in confirmation. "Do you think he'd be interested? Not exactly a great job."

"He might be. He's certainly by himself, and that's something that Harper was never very good at. He lives off being around people, from what I recall. It never made much sense to me, but he was always very social."

"And he hung around  _you?_ " I joke, squeezing his hand for just a moment to try and communicate that I'm just kidding, no offense intended. I add in a small grin, for good measure.

Grayson gives another flicker of a smile. "We were paired together, it wasn't something either of us had a choice in. There's probably very little harm in asking him if he's interested, though it will mean planning a trip to Star City. That may take a while to do properly, even if Ra's agrees to help."

"Let's do it," I press, and Grayson watches me for a second before nodding in assent.

"Alright, I'll work it out." He pauses, and then his fingers contract around mine with just a little bit of pressure. "You'll be alright, Jason. I promise."

For just a second, as I lean into his shoulder and let my head drop to rest on his shoulder and he's warm and solid next to me, I actually believe it. I'm not giving up, there's no way in  _hell_ I'm going to stop looking for  _some_ way to save Grayson, but if I don't…

We'll cross that bridge later.


	11. To the Cheek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, you know who this chapter is from the perspective of? Roy. Enjoy!

I  _love_ idiots.

I grin, slipping to the side of a charging goon and  _accidentally_  letting the arrow on my bow release. He howls as it impales his right calf, collapsing to the ground, and I automatically raise my hand for another projectile. My fingertips drift over the shafts, feeling for an unmarked one through my gloves and drawing it to my bow before the thug is even fully on the ground.

"Watch your step, buddy!" I call as I spin towards the next thug, sinking to one knee and sending my second arrow through his side. It ricochets off the wall behind him, skittering off into the dimly lit warehouse —  _cliche_  idiots, these ones, my  _favorite kind_ — as the man gapes at me and raises shaking hands to the bloody hole through his torso.

I meet a third one coming in to my left, extending a leg out and upwards to catch in the middle of his chest as he drives himself into it with all of that  _lovely_ momentum. Something definitively cracks; my grin gets a little wider. I get back to my feet and leap to the side to dodge a rush of bullets — including some that must hit my broken-ribbed friend, and probably the one on the floor too — and draw two arrows to my bow as I roll, in a practiced maneuver that feels like second nature now. I let them fly the second I'm straight again.

One pins a suited bodyguard to the wall behind him by his thigh, which is luckier than his  _very_ dead friend in the identical suit. Speaking of dead friends…

I turn, reaching for the handgun holstered at my calf and then putting a bullet into the head of one of the fleeing thugs. Looks like only the two bodyguards of the man cowering beneath the table were smart enough to bring guns to this meet. Dumbasses. There are two more fleeing thugs that I take out equally as easy — one with a shot through his lower back and the other through the throat, I like my  _variety_  — before I straighten up. I sling my bow over my back, and check the rounds in my gun as I head for the idiot under the table.

I've been through  _three_ of these meetings tonight, all by the same two groups, and it looks like I've finally hit the jackpot. This guy is dressed so much nicer than anyone else I've killed crashing these parties, so if he's not the leader he's one of the more impressive underlings. This should be fun.

The bodyguard pinned to the wall looks like he's going into shock — he's turning a pretty entertaining shade of pale — and I idly put a bullet in him after making sure I'm still decently stocked. I've got the ammo to waste on soon-to-be-corpses, no problem. He slumps, pulling the arrow out of the wall with his weight as he collapses with the wet, heavy thud of a bloody body.

I kick the table away from on top of the cowering leader, letting the metal screech over the floor and then fall over with a ringing clang. He stares up at me, eyes wide in terror and his skin already slick with sweat.

"So," I announce, tucking the gun back into its holster, "let's have a talk, you and I." I offer him one of my wider grins, sinking down to crouch in front of him and drawing my knife out of the large,  _obvious_ sheath on my left thigh. He makes a little squeaky sound of terror. " _I've_ been through three of your other meetings tonight," I inform him, "and I'd  _like_ to think that was all of them, but  _you're_ going to tell me if I'm right. Clear?"

He nods, vigorously, and then flinches with a terrified little cringe as I pat his calf with my free hand.

"Good!" I say, letting my cheer into my words. "So, including this little gathering, you had four of them set up, right?"

"Yes," he gasps, visibly shaking, and I flip the knife in my hand, watching his eyes follow it up and back down.

"Now, you're  _really_ sure about that answer, right?"

" _Please,"_ he begs, holding both arms up like they'll do a damn thing to stop me. "God  _please_ don't hurt me,  _please_."

I chuckle, giving his leg another pat and straightening up. "Bud, I'm gonna hurt you either way," I let him know, watching his skin whiten in fear, "but if you tell me the  _truth_ , then I don't have to track you back down and finish things when I find out you were lying. So! Are you  _really_ sure that's the answer you want to give me?" He stares at me, eyes slowly starting to water, and I reach forward to tap the flat of the knife against his foot. "Hey, you still with me, buddy?"

He freaks the second the knife touches him, letting out a cry of fear and scrambling away from me on his back. I snort, rolling my eyes as I straighten up and he finally figures out that rolling over and getting to his feet is probably easier than crab-crawling his way across the floor.

"Have you ever even been in Star City before?" I call after him, straightening up and sheathing the knife, reaching for my bow. "You're trying to run away from an  _archer_ , genius." I put an arrow through his left shoulder, the force spinning him forward and off balance, back to the floor. I take my time getting over to him as he sobs and clutches at it, blood staining his half-decent formal white shirt. I know what the high-price clothing lines look like, and that is not one of them.

I step down on his back, flattening him out against the concrete, and lean down to tear the arrow out of the back of his shoulder. He screams. I notch the retrieved arrow to my bow and step off him, flipping him over onto his back with the toe of my boot.

"You've got more limbs," I inform him conversationally, holding the string loosely between my fingers, "and I've got all night and a  _lot_ of sharp things to play with. How about we cut to the chase and save us both some time, hm?"

"That's it," he blubbers, "I  _swear_."

"Great," I say with a grin. "If you're lying to me I'm going to find you in the hospital and we'll have some fun, hm? Now, you didn't set all this up — you're not  _nearly_ high paid enough — so you're going to pass a message onto your boss for me, alright?" He nods.

" _Anything_ ," he promises, and I pull the arrow off the bow and swing it to secure over my back again. I keep the arrow in my hand, and step forward onto the wrist of his injured arm, crouching down. He whimpers, but doesn't try and get me off him.

"Let him know that this?" I raise my free hand to make some kind of vague gesture encompassing the warehouse. "Star City? This is Red Archer's territory. If your boss wants to do business here, he should be  _polite_ about it, hm? Ask first, maybe offer some gifts? You know, be nice. This?" I gesture again. "Is a really fast way to get on his bad side, and as I am  _so_  kindly demonstrating, that is not a place he wants to be. Alright?"

"I will, I  _will_." The not-quite-a-leader nods like his head's falling off, and I tap the tip of the arrow against the middle of his chest.

"That's appreciated, buddy. Now, let's make sure the message has the right kind of envelope, shall we?"

* * *

I whistle to myself, taking a glance around to make sure I'm alone before I tug my left glove off and press my fingertips to the flat black screen beside the metal door. It flashes blue, and then the lock disengages with a heavy clunk. I leave my glove off, pushing my way through the door and letting it fall shut behind me.

Ah, temporary home sweet home. I bypass the metal table to my left filled with all my basic supplies — arrows and ammo, mostly — and move to the sink built into the wall beyond it. I drop my glove into it and then tug off the other one, letting it fall to join its comrade. I flick the handle, watching for a second as the water streams down, running red as it washes the blood off my gloves. They're the same color, so it's not like anyone looking would actually  _notice_ it until it dried, but I don't like it on my bowstring.

I lower my hands in, turning the gloves and still whistling as I scrub at them till the water runs clear. I push the water off, leaving them in the sink to dry, and turn to my right to the rest of my section of the room. Two tables and a section of shelves, littered with everything I could ever need to cause havoc in Star City. Arrows of  _all_ kinds, guns, and a bunch of things to cause various levels of explosions. It doesn't have any of my experimental gadgets though, which kinda saddens me. Those are all back at the main base; this is just a stop-off point.

Oliver's stuff is on the opposite side, but  _he's_ got much less variety over there. Oliver is all arrows, all the time. He doesn't appreciate the fine art of explosions, or the kick of a gun. His loss.

I clear a space on one of the tables, taking my handgun out of its holster and setting it down. I check my ammo pockets first, refilling those with cartridges, and get most of the way through checking the rest of my pockets to see what else I might need before I hear the door open.

"Hey Ollie," I call over my shoulder. We're the only two people that pad accepts, so unless Owlman the bastard is back in town, no one else can open that door normally. It clicks shut again without him answering, and I look back over my shoulder.

He looks all kinds of pissed off, which is interesting. Not rare, but usually Oliver stays in a pretty good mood unless someone does something  _dumb_. Huh. I reach back and unhook my bow, pulling it down to take a look and make sure it's still fine after the busy night.

"I took care of that group trying all those business deals with our gangs," I let him know, turning towards him as I run my fingers down the bow, and draw it for a moment to check that the string feels alright. "Four meetings, but I found the high-ranker. Whoever was bossing them around has a nice message waiting for him in the hospital; he's been warned to ask permission before he starts doing things on our turf."

I can hear the click of Oliver's boots — I'll never understand why he keeps those slight heels — but he still doesn't say anything. Okay,  _bad_ mood then. Wonder what Crime Syndicate member did it this time? It's always one of  _those_ bastards. I can see the edge of his costume where he's standing in front of me, and I raise my head to look at him. His teeth are curled into a snarl, his muscles are locked tight, and I suddenly get the impression that he's mad at  _me_.

"Ollie?"

"What the  _hell_ is wrong with you?" Oliver shouts, shoving me back with both hands in a  _hard_ push.

I slam back into the metal table behind me, the equipment on the top scattering beneath my hands as I try and get a semblance of balance back with my bow still held in my left hand. "Woah!" I call, lifting it out to the side as I straighten up, gripping the edge of the table with my free hand. "Ollie,  _woah!_ What did I do?!"

He's  _pissed_ , I know that much, but  _hell_ if I know why. Did I fuck something up, kill someone I wasn't supposed to? I was pretty sure I had a handle on who the important players in Star City were, and I definitely didn't put an arrow in any of them recently. Definitely not tonight, either.  _Oliver_ sent me after these guys, and I only killed thugs anyway, the main guy is still alive. Maybe not whole, or really conscious at the moment, but he's  _alive_.

The last time Oliver looked this angry I'd… No, he's never been this angry with  _me_ before. The last time I saw him this angry,  _Owlman_  had let the Jokester kill Talon, and Oliver definitely was about this furious but he never aimed it at me. Which was  _good_ , because I had my own frustrations about Talon's death.

The punch is quick, snapping my head to one side before my automatic block gets far enough up to stop it. I stagger, and then Oliver's hands are  _wrapped around my throat_. I take in a sharp breath before they tighten, tensing the muscles of my neck against his hands to keep as much control as I can while my mentor tries to fucking  _strangle_ me. I flail for a second, as he presses me down over the table, before training kicks in.

I slam my bow into the side of his head — he must be  _furious_ , because that should never have hit him — and kick out when he recoils from the blow, shoving him away from me. I take in a gasp of air, but immediately move to get my hand up over my shoulder and get an  _arrow_ in my hand. I draw it to the bow before I even try and straighten up, pulling the string tight to my cheek. My hands are  _shaking_.

He meets me with a bow in his own hands,  _always_ faster than I am at the draw, and I stare down the arrow at him, at the twin weapon aimed at my chest. I carefully straighten up, not letting the string relax even a little, and take a step sideways so I'm not pinned against the table or the wall.

"Oliver," I start cautiously, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, "can we maybe  _talk_ about this whole killing me thing?" I don't stop moving, backing up to get some distance between us because Oliver is by far the better close combat fighter, but we're a little more evenly matched when it comes to archery.

"What is  _wrong_  with you, Roy?" Oliver repeats, and he sounds  _disgusted_. "Cheshire,  _really?_ " My heart stops for a second. Oh  _no_.

How the hell did he find out? Cheshire and I were careful, we were always  _so_ careful, and it's not like Oliver's a great tracker. He can hunt down leads, sure, but  _me?_ I picked up all kinds of tips from Talon, so I'm harder to find than most people give me credit for, and Cheshire's just as good at hiding her tracks. Oliver shouldn't have  _found out_.

"Were you even thinking, Roy?! If you told her  _anything_ —"

"No!" I deny, stopping in my tracks and letting the string of my bow relax just a little, letting the arrow drop down an inch or so. "Of  _course_ not! She knows…" I have to stop, thinking about it for a few seconds. "She knows my name, that's  _it_." Totally a lie. I only  _told_ her my name, but Cheshire is… she's amazing. She knows more than that, guaranteed.

Oliver's aim doesn't waver, and my grip tightens on the limb of my bow as he speaks. "And your  _face_. That's  _more_ than enough to trace you back to me. Roy, you stupid little  _bastard_."

"Oliver," I try a placating tone, but I'm nowhere near  _dumb_ enough to let myself relax, "she won't be a problem, I promise. It wasn't serious."

Oliver's face tightens, teeth grinding together. "Your eight month old daughter says otherwise," my mentor spits at me. My words, all my carefully constructed arguments, die on my tongue. He  _knows_. But that… Cheshire would never let that happen, she'd die before putting our daughter in danger.  _No_. "Do you know how  _weak_ it makes me look, that  _Owlman_ had to tell me this was going on? The Syndicate would have a damn  _field day_."

"I never meant—"

The twang of a bowstring is my only warning, and the arrow slices through the side of my shoulder as instinctual reaction jerks me to the side. I grit my teeth, aiming and loosing my shot in the same breath. Oliver is already moving, jagged patterns that make him insanely hard to hit, and the shot whistles past his side with inches to spare. It may as well be a mile, for people like us. I reach for another arrow — his is already on the string, drawing up for him to sight along — and leap around the edge of one of the metal cabinets in the back of the room as he shoots again. It skitters off the concrete floor, close to my feet, and I risk a glance down at my shoulder.

_Fuck_ , that stings. It doesn't look too deep, though there's a neat trail of blood trickling down my arm, and I can still draw my bow so right now it's not important. I can patch or stitch it up when Oliver isn't shooting at me, if I get out of here alive.

"I  _raised_ you," Oliver yells, and oh if I was stupid enough I could try looking around the cabinet, but I'm just  _not_. I like having my nose in one piece, and I  _really_ like not having an arrow in my skull. I'm totally not up for testing Oliver's reaction speeds. "I thought you  _knew better_ than to screw around with heroes, Roy! She's one of  _them_ , you should have put an arrow in her!"

"I didn't know who she was!" I call around the edge of the cabinet, checking the angle of my drawn arrow and then looking over my shoulder at the quiver on my back. I've been out all night already, and I hadn't restocked my arrows yet so I only have five left against Oliver's full quiver, and most of mine are specialty. I kind of cut it down to the wire on arrows before I headed back to stock; I still had bullets so it didn't matter so much.

…

_My gun is on the table_.

_Shit_ , I'm not really liking my chances here. Sure, an EMP arrow might  _seem_ like a good idea on a drawing board (and it works freaking  _marvels_  against androids), but unless I want to take out the lights in here it won't do me any good.

I like lights.

"Come on, Oliver, we can  _talk_ about this, right?  _Without_ the arrows?"

"Sure," come the tight response, "come on out and  _talk_ , Roy." It still sounds like a growled threat, and Oliver doesn't  _whiplash_ like this. When he's pissed, he  _stays_ pissed. When Talon was killed it took three weeks and about four dozen people (and those were just the casualties) before he calmed down.

My hand trembles, protesting holding the drawstring tight with a shiver of pain from the wound in my shoulder. I tilt my head back against the metal, ignoring the sting. Oh I hope to  _god_ Oliver didn't tag me with a poisoned arrow, guessing the antidotes I have handy without knowing what he hit me with could be… bad. He wouldn't, right? If he's this pissed at me he'll want to kill me personally, not let me die from poison. Wow, that's a really terrible thing to think about.

"Somehow I'm not believing you," I answer, taking a look around for something, fucking  _anything_ , that will get me out of this in one piece. This is a  _bad_ place to be, for positioning. This place is just a drop-off point, a refueling station, so there's only the one door, and that door is behind Oliver. I've got a nice defensive position, with six spaced metal cabinets (for specialized or heavy equipment, mostly, this  _is_ our most used drop off) that I can dive between, but there's only empty space and one  _pissed_ off archer between me and the door. That's not good.

There's all kinds of deadly stuff in the cabinets, but I uh… don't have it memorized, and going for something would also mean I'd need to let the arrow off my bow. I'd only get one chance to grab something useful, and who  _knows_ what's in here? What if I end up with some kryptonite tool? That'd be totally  _useless_  against Oliver.

Oh,  _shit_ , and Oliver is at the front of the room, with the tables of  _gear_. Which means—

"Come out, Roy,  _now_ , or I swear I'll throw the whole damn case of grenades back there with you."

Yeah, means  _that_.

"Woah! Okay,  _alright_." I raise my bow again, taking a deep breath and  _praying_ — and I don't even  _believe_ in a god, so who am I kidding? — that Oliver gives me  _some_ kind of chance to explain. I step around the edge of the cabinet.

Oliver is next to  _my_ table, which means he's got a  _lot_ of nasty shit about a foot away from him. All of those things are ones I usually use, yeah, but he knows enough about explosive devices to set them off. It's not like the gear is totally exclusive.

"How about you give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you right now?" Oliver hisses, glaring at me. Even with his mask on I can still picture his furious, narrowed eyes in my head. My arm twitches again, and I clench my teeth and bite back the urge to let the string relax. "For god's sake, Roy, a  _hero?_  And  _her?_ She's one of Ra's' pawns and you  _know_ that. Of all the people you could have messed around with—"

"I didn't  _know_ , Oliver," I insist. "I  _swear_ , I didn't know who she was until she dropped in through my damn window and told me we had a kid."

Oliver shakes his head, and I can see his gloved hand clench down on the limb of the bow. "Great, you're  _blind_ too. You should have told me the  _second_  you knew, Roy, and the only reason I can think of that you  _didn't_  is because you've actually fallen for the bitch."

"Don't  _call_ her that," I snap, feeling anger for the first time in this conversation.

"You  _have_ ," Oliver says. "You  _fool_. You fell in love with a damn  _hero_  and her  _brat_ , and you picked that over me?"

"I was kinda hoping to not pick at all," I admit, a third shiver forcing me to relax a bit of the tension on my bowstring. Dangerous, and  _terrible_ , but I haven't got much choice in it. I'm not going to get out of this by wrecking my bow arm right off the bat; that would be a hell of a way to lose something like this. Damn, this was a  _terrible_  first injury to take. Anything else would have been fine — anything this comparatively minor, anyway — but not  _that_ arm. I  _need_ that arm.

"You had to know I'd find out eventually, Roy. Did you make  _any_ kind of a plan for all this, or are you just recklessly barging your way through life like you always do? Did you just  _hope_ I'd decide to let it go?"

I hesitate, and then my tongue runs away with my brain. "Is it bad if I admit I was pretty sure you were never going to notice?"

The arrow that slices past my throat is  _really_ answer enough. My back slams against the metal cabinet to my left, and the precious fraction of a second I waste having to draw my bow back all the way before I fire lets Oliver duck to the side and have it bounce off the wall instead of hitting him. He reaches for the table instead of another arrow, and I get a moment of panicky heart-stopping fear when he flings one of my grenades at me. Instinct more than anything else lets me turn and smack it out of the air with my bow, back towards him, which makes me feel  _awesome_ for all of a second before I realize he never pulled the pin, there's an arrow on his string, and I'm in an  _awful_  position to do any kind of dodging.

I give a shout as his arrow sinks into my left thigh, head slamming back against the metal as I arch and my free hand clenches tight. I bite down the scream. I've taken worse than this, right? Right, totally. One arrow through the leg, no  _problem_. I can deal. It's not so bad,  _really_.

Christ, is this what people feel like when  _I_ shoot them?

I struggle to back off, to get behind  _something_ and out of Oliver's line of sight, but that leg won't hold my weight and I'm stuck leaning on the cabinet, my chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths and providing a nice giant target for the next arrow. I grit my teeth, bracing and closing my eyes as I wait for the sudden, sharp pain between my ribs, or if he's nice the easy blackness of one to my head.

The kick to my side is totally unexpected.

I hit the ground hard, giving a gasp of pain as the point of the arrow jutting out of my leg grinds across the floor, pulling at the edges of the wound in a way that blacks my vision out for a second. They're made of stronger stuff than your classic arrows, so it doesn't snap, just awkwardly forces my leg to one side. My bow leaves my grip, skidding across the floor past my head, and I reach for it once — in instinctive, panicked reaction to the loss of my weapon — before Oliver is crouching over me, the steel of an arrow tip digging into the underside of my jaw and forcing my head flat back against the floor. I swallow, feeling the metal move against my skin, and drag my gaze up to meet his.

I didn't think I was going to die at  _Oliver's_  hands. I don't think that thought's ever even crossed my mind. Sure, we fought, but it was never like  _this_. Never  _physical_.

I pull in a ragged breath, gritting my teeth to suppress  _some_ kind of sound I definitely don't want to make right now. At least if he shoots me like this it'll be pretty much instant. Maybe a brief flash of pain, but the angle that it's at will sever my spine, and the shock of it will make me  _really_ unconscious long before I either bleed out, choke on my own blood, or suffocate.

That's not so bad, really. There are a lot of ways this could have gone that are a lot worse.

Shame Jade will have to raise Lian alone, though. I really… God, I love her. I love everything about her, and it stuns me every time I see her that she slept with me  _knowing_ who I was, and  _kept_ seeing me. A hero like her? I figured she'd drop me at the first opportunity, once she had whatever she wanted. It's not great to be associated with someone like me, after all.

And Lian…  _Lian_. I hope Jade… I hope Jade makes something up. Some kind of story about a father who died to protect her, or something. Our daughter doesn't need to know that  _I'm_ the kind of person she should be protected from. I hope Jade lies to her.

Oliver stares down at me, shoulders trembling with what  _has_ to be fury. His mouth curls in a sneer. "You betrayed me, Roy. I  _raised_  you, and you went behind my back."

"Get it over with," I manage, through my teeth.

Finally, after a long silence, the arrow draws back from my throat, and Oliver very deliberately pulls it off his bow and slides it back into the quiver behind his shoulder. I blink, and the next second his bow cracks across my face. The world erupts into spots, and I swallow and twitch my way back to really being able to see. Oliver stands up, feet planted to either side of my waist as he stares down at me. I can feel the ache in my jaw, the trickle of blood on my skin from some kind of cut.

"I want you gone," he says slowly, glaring down at me. "I'm going to let you limp away this time, Roy, but if you  _ever_ come face to face with me again I'll put an arrow through you and make  _sure_ it kills you. Do you understand me?"

I try to nod but it makes me dizzy — oh, concussions are  _fun_ — so I crack my mouth open far enough to force out, "Yes."

He steps away from me, turning his back and heading for the exit. "I don't care where you go, but be  _gone_ , Roy. You're not part of my circle anymore."

I swallow, barely managing to lift my head as I hear the door click open and shut again. With Oliver gone I let the low cry of pain I've been biting back leave me, arching my throat and gritting my teeth to hold the rest in. I don't have time for this. There's an  _arrow_ in my thigh, and I know enough about arrow wounds to know how they have to be dealt with.

I hope to  _god_  I have enough pain tolerance to get through it.

From here, the distance to my medical supplies — tucked under my table at the very front of the room — seems like a totally impossible distance, but I start anyway. I curl, dragging myself along the floor by just the strength of my arms, unable to use my uninjured leg effectively while keeping my impaled one at the right angle not to disturb the wound. I'm sweating and shaking by the time I make it, and there's an impressive trail of blood behind me that's pretty worrying, but I get to grab the basic emergency medical kit like it's a prize. Which it  _is_ , after getting over here.

I throw it open and grab a couple of thick pads out of it, a bottle of alcohol, and a shot of a painkiller I can't recall the exact name of right now. It doesn't thin blood out, and that's the important bit. I reach down, feeling at the edges of the wound, and have to stop and take in several deep breaths as my leg flinches away from the sharp burst of pain. This is going to  _suck_.

Oliver's arrows are not designed to come back out, and the heads don't unscrew like the nicer ones used by some hunters. The only way to get it out apart from cutting the ends off — and we've got the tools to do that in the  _main_ base, but not here — is to shove it through. No one can get in here, and I'm definitely not crawling out into public to try and get someone to come by and get me out of this mess. I don't think I'll last long enough for someone to get here, and then get me somewhere with the right tools, not to mention the awkwardness of going to a hospital as a masked anything.

_I_ have to do it. Not much choice.

My hands shake as I unbuckle the sheath holding my knife — Oliver put the arrow right between the straps — and let it fall to the floor. I brace myself as much as I can, placing my hand on the end of the arrow and  _shoving_.

I  _scream_.

As soon as I can move I reach back and curl my hand around the shaft on the other side, giving it a sharp yank. It clatters to the ground from my jerking hand, and I have to brace my forehead against the floor for a minute to be able to breathe in anything but tiny little gasps. I grasp at the bottle of alcohol, fumblingly removing the cap and dumping it in the direction of my leg without thinking about it.

I'm pretty sure I scream again, but the world snaps to black so quickly that I honestly don't know.

When I come to, everything stays fairly fuzzy. It takes me a few moments to remember what I was doing, and then another few to realize that I'm shaking. I drag in a breath, letting it out with a moan, and turn my attention back down to my leg. The blood has soaked the leg of my uniform, and is starting to form a neat little pool around my limb. That, that's not good.

I reclaim my wits enough to grab a curved needle with already laced thread — thank  _god_  — from the kit, and slowly push myself far enough up to be able to reach my leg. The change of position makes me dizzy, and I have to pause for a second just to breathe, but then I rip the uniform open enough to see the exit and entry wounds, and get to work. It's not a good job, and I'm pretty sure Oliver would have failed me on every training we ever did about how to sew up a wound, but  _damn_ him anyway. I slap the pads on either side, and grab a roll of bandages from the kit to wrap around them.

I collapse backwards the second I'm done, breath coming shallow, and the world swims.

I don't… I  _can't_ …

Unconsciousness has never been such a relief.

* * *

Waking up feels about as bad as some of the nastier hangovers I've ever gotten. Everything is fuzzy, and my tongue feels heavy and dry in my mouth, tasting vaguely like copper. I shift, prying my eyes partially open to stare at the grey surface in front of me.

I don't feel right.

I shift again, pushing my torso up on my right arm and immediately collapsing back again with a keening noise that I will deny I ever made. My shoulder burns, and I tilt myself onto my back to get the pressure off it, which helps a little. My vision swims, and I take several long slow blinks as I breathe that manage to clear it up. The slight white tint is my mask, which is still on, but it's also just that I'm seriously fucked up right now. I get my left arm underneath me, levering myself up to sitting through a couple attempts and a lot of dizziness.

My head drops, and I have several moments of trying not to pass out again, but I manage it. I look at my arm first, not sure if I can stomach the sight of my leg just yet. Most of my arm is covered in dried blood, flaking off me with every twitch, but at least it looks like it closed up on its own. It needs a bandage, or something, but I probably don't need to stitch it closed. Good, because I'm not totally sure I can hold a needle right now; I don't know how I managed it for my leg.

_Not great_ , snarks a voice in my head that sounds like Oliver, and I shake my head to try and get it to go away. Which is,  _woah_ , a bad idea.

A minute or so of breathing later, and I haltingly lower my gaze to my leg. Oh, that's… that's bad. Being a little less panicked, and a little less  _dying,_ I can really appreciate the blood streaked along the floor, and pooled around my leg. That's a  _lot_ of blood. I'm seriously shocked that I'm still alive. Hooray for survival training, I guess?

On the plus side, my makeshift bandage seems to be holding up, and I'm not bleeding through it. That's good. I test it, shifting that leg, and make another of those sharp little keening noises as my vision flickers and I nearly fall over.

Woah, okay. Not— Not doing that again. Need painkillers, or  _something_ , to get me out of here. Can't be here whenever Oliver decides to get back, right?

So I'll need painkillers, antibiotics, and… and… there was something else. My arm! I need to clean off my arm, if I can get to the sink, and wrap it up. Then…  _fuck_ , what then? What do I need before I get the hell out of here? Gloves in the sink, gun on the table, as many arrows as I can carry, my knife, and it's probably a good idea to take a fair amount of extra medical supplies with me for later.

Then I head to… to…  _Jade_. Oliver knows about  _Jade_ , and  _Lian_. I have to warn them, get them out of Star City before he tracks them down. That's next. She didn't  _think_ I knew, but I know where she lives. It's across town, and that'll be a  _nightmare_ of a journey, but I have to do it. Jade can handle herself — god, can she — but I can't leave them to Oliver, not if I can get there. Even if I'm just a distraction, or a body in the way, I  _have_ to try and help.

I love her.

I turn, staring down at the medical kit still lying open and half ransacked next to me, and give a weak little desperate chuckle at the painkiller shot next to it. Right, I  _do_ know what the hell I'm doing sometimes. I pick it up, wincing a bit at the needle, before bracing myself. Okay, this is going to hurt like a bitch, but it'll make the pain easier so that's  _fine_. Right? Right.

I jam the needle into my thigh, at the edge of the the bandages, and depress the plunger before I can think about it. It feels  _really_ weird _,_ and also  _really_ painful, but I grit my teeth and shake through it. It'll get better, it'll get better, it'll get better… When my thumb hits the bottom I pull the needle back out and throw it to the side, cringing to myself. Okay, those are in my system.

Now, bandages for the arm. There's no way in hell I want to get to the sink and  _then_ realize the supplies I need are still back here. Yeah,  _that_ would be a great way to keep myself together.

Disinfectant — good on me, emptying the whole damn bottle of alcohol over my leg, smart thinking  _Roy_  — and bandages to wrap it once it's clean. There should be another bottle of alcohol in here somewhere. It takes some digging, while I pull out the bandages and the one pad I'll need, but I find one. The painkillers have started to kick in too, which feels… I laugh to myself.

_Good_.

I test moving my leg again, and even though it still  _hurts_ , I can do it without passing out this time. I move, slowly dragging myself to my feet through lightheadedness, a few dull explosions of pain, and some really awkward angles so I don't have to support myself on my injured leg or arm. Somehow, I get to my feet. I limp my way to the sink, leaning heavily on it once I get there, and fish my gloves out of the basin. They're still a little damp, so I can't have been unconscious for too long, right?

I turn the water on, setting my supplies to the side, and spend a few moments just leaning over it, breathing and trying not to collapse, or float off into the sky. Heavy duty painkillers do some really interesting things to your system; use not recommended unless approved by a physician. Another laugh escapes me, some mixture of a snicker and a snort. God, I'm so  _high_  right now. Better than pain though, I'm pretty sure of that.

I dip my hands into the water, splashing it up onto my arm and watching it slide in pink streaks down my skin. I try to focus, washing at it until my arm is mostly clean and at least the wound site is clear. Ugly, raw, and barely starting to scab, but clean. Dumping some of the alcohol over it stings like a  _bitch_ , and the bottle drops from my fingers into the sink, but it's not nearly as bad as my leg was. Painkillers. Woo!

My hands shake as I press the pad down over the wound and set to work winding the bandage. I have to hold one end of it in my teeth as I work — which at least gives me something to bite down on — but eventually I manage to get it tight enough to stay, and keep pressure, but not enough to cut off all circulation. Delicate balance, that. My leg seems alright so far. Good to know I can still make a decent pressure bandage when my body is trying to black out on me.

I leave the extra supplies where they are, looking around the rest of the room to figure out where the things I need are. My gun is on the table — crooked and shoved to one side, but fine — my gloves are next to me, my bow is…  _fuck_. All the way across the room, and on the floor. I'll leave that till last then.

I start by turning to the metal table to my left; the 'quick draw' table, as I named it. Everything I could need in a moment's notice, primed and ready to go. Extra masks, extra arrows, ammo, a replacement bow. All that stuff. I lean heavily on it, unslinging the quiver from my back and letting it fall, scattering arrows across the surface.

Just plain arrows, maybe a few poisoned ones. Nothing fancy. We need the fancy to deal with metahumans, but if it's just going to be Oliver coming after me I shouldn't need anything more than some sharp things. I move on automatic, restocking my quiver with all the basics before reattaching it to my back.

Chances are good I won't be coming back here again. I should take extras too.

I reach for a spare quiver, my finger fumbling over it as I stock that one with more of the same. It hooks onto my belt, hanging down my right thigh. It's supposed to be my left, but it seems just a little stupid to put anything over there that's going to hit my leg every time I walk. Yeah, quick route to a lot of screaming and a lot of unconsciousness over there.

Right, arrows done.

I move on to the gear table to my right, slipping the magazine out of my handgun and replacing it before leaning down — bracing my shoulder against the table, because I might topple over if I don't — and slipping the gun into the holster on my right calf. I take another deep breath, straightening back up, and have to clutch at the table for a second before I can move on. I limp to my bow, taking a path along the wall so I can lean on things as I move, and clutch at one of the cabinet drawer handles to lean down and pick it up. My head swims, my vision blacks out, but I feel the limb of the bow underneath my fingers.

Last things. My knife, and some spare medical supplies. I hook my bow over my back, and  _somehow_ manage to drag myself over to the site of what definitely looks like my murder. There's nothing to grab onto here, so I give it up and just let myself sink down onto my ass.

I grab the sheath, buckling it around my right thigh — I'm going to be so horribly off balance — and making sure the knife is secure in it. I drag the medical kit over to me next, picking out some fresh rolls of bandages and a small, travel-sized container of alcohol. I tuck them away in pouches inside my belt, the ones I usually keep empty in case I find something during the night that I need to transport around. Holding things while using a bow just  _doesn't_ work the way most people want it to.

I look up at the sink, and my gloves next to it, with something close to despair, before I toughen it into resignation. Come  _on_ , Roy. You've seen people take so much more than this and be just fine.

I mean, when I worked with Talon he was  _always_ bruised and beaten all to hell every time I got a look under his suit, and he  _still_ moved like a damn  _god_. If he could take that, I can take  _one_ arrow. I shake my head — which is  _still_  a bad idea,  _damn_ it — and force myself up. Great, my life is, that thinking of dead teammates never fails to inspire me. It's a little easier to stand this time, the painkillers really sinking in and numbing out most of the upper portion of my thigh, and I get to the sink without too much trouble. I tug my gloves on, not liking the damp fabric but  _really_ not caring enough to go find more gloves right now. I can  _deal_.

Yeah, now comes the  _hell_ part of this. Getting across Star City when walking the length of a  _room_ is hard.

I head for the door, my teeth clenching. I'm limping heavily, but at least I can walk. I'm just hoping I don't piss my leg off too badly, and it holds closed for me. I've lost enough blood already, I don't know where I might end up if I lose any more.

Okay, so I'm not going to be able to walk across the city, and even if I could that would take  _way_ too long. With the painkillers in me, and the injury to my arm, there's no way in hell I can do the normal grappling arrow swinging thing either. My bike's outside, that might do. Oh,  _damn_ , but there's a tracker in it in case I need help but Oliver can't reach me. I don't have the concentration to disable that right now.

I open the door and shove out, glancing up at the sky. It's still night, good. I started my night when the sun wasn't quite set, and those four meetings weren't  _that_ hard, so it still being night reassures me that I wasn't unconscious for too long.

Maybe I can just take the bike out onto a main road somewhere, somewhere that I can hijack or hotwire somebody's car to get me where I'm going. No, better not to risk the bike at all. Star City is awake most of the time, I can find somebody to steal a car from no problem. We're in a residential area anyway, there's  _gotta_ be something within the block.

* * *

It's harder than I thought it would be to get up the building to Jade's apartment, even though I use the damn elevator like a normal person. Luckily, there's no one around to question why Arsenal is riding an elevator, or anyone to take advantage of my screwed up state. There's a lot of people that would love to take me apart, and now's a  _great_ time for them to do it.

I manage to get down the hall alright, and raise a hand to knock at her door. It's not as strong as I wanted it to be, but that's alright. If she's here, she'll open the door. She's a  _ninja_ , she can hear a couple not-as-strong-as-average knocks just fine. Assuming her door isn't set up to all kinds of security measures. Don't know, never been here.

I lean against the wall next to the door, all my weight off my injured leg and trying to ignore the press of my cut arm against the cheap plaster. Small pains to avoid bigger ones, it's  _fine_. I'll be  _fine_.

I hear it open, and drag my eyes open far enough to meet her startled dark,  _dark_  eyes and see the black, gorgeous, mess of her hair. " _Arsenal?_ " she demands, after a moment of shock, taking me in with several long sweeps down my frame. Yeah, I probably look like  _shit_ , don't I?

" _Hey_ ," I offer, dragging a weak grin from somewhere.

She has my arm the next second, wrapping it over her shoulders and all but hauling me into her apartment. I always forget how strong she is, considering she's short too. Ninja training builds muscle or… or something.

The door shuts, and she leans me against the wall next to it as she flicks what look like at least three different locks shut. I watch her hazily, blinking and noticing the light green nightgown she's wearing, but not really taking it  _in_. I'm too entranced by her face. By the angry angle to her eyebrows and the tight set of her jaw. She's so pretty when she's angry.

She hooks me back over her shoulder and drags me further into the dark apartment. "You wake Lian up and I swear I will  _poison_  you, Roy," she nearly snarls at me.

"Promise?" I answer groggily, and then blink as she shuts a door behind us and clicks a way too  _bright_ light on. White, tile; bathroom?

Her hands are on me, disconnecting straps and hooks to strip me of all my weapons with easy familiarity. If I didn't trust her, I'd be freaked out. These are kind of  _designed_ so people can't just take them off without my permission. I close my eyes, letting myself drift as she works, until a hard punch to my shoulder — my left, the uninjured one — snaps me back to awareness.

"You are  _not_ passing out in my bathroom, murderer." I blink, trying to focus on her, and shift a little as she tugs my gloves off and then sets on my boots.

"Love me anyway," I manage, after my brain works for long enough to come up with something to say, and she shakes her head but leans in to press a light kiss to my forehead.

"Idiot." She unhooks my belt and then pulls the top of my uniform up and off my arms — and it should probably worry me that it doesn't hurt like it probably should. Her fingers cup my face, bringing it up to meet her eyes. "Still with me?" she asks, and I lean into her touch.

" _Always_ ," I answer, and she snorts.

"Remind me to bleed you out more often, Roy. You're sweet when you're suffering from blood loss." She pulls me up, maneuvering me to lay me inside her shower. "Try not to drown, alright dumbass?" I manage a nod, and she reaches up to turn the water on. I flinch a little at the cold, but let her pull me forward and into the spray. The water runs an interesting shade of pinkish red, and I get a little fuzzy as she takes what I'm pretty sure is soap to my skin, and maybe shampoo to my hair?

I come back to myself eventually, as she snaps her fingers in front of my face. The water is off. I look up, meeting her eyes, and she arches an eyebrow. Some kind of questioning sound comes out of my mouth, and she directs my gaze down to my pants by pointing.

"Those," she informs me, "are ruined, and I'm going to cut them off you. Then I'm going to rebandage your leg, and your arm. Do you understand me?" I nod, slowly, and she sighs. "Lay down, Roy." She guides me back against the wet tile, and I stare up at the ceiling as she takes a pair of scissors to my pants.

There was something I needed to tell her, wasn't there? Something… important.

" _Jesus_ , Roy," Jade gasps out, with a hard edge of anger. I manage to look down far enough to see that she's looking at what must be the wound in my thigh. "Were you  _drunk_  when you sewed this up? This is  _awful_."

"Passed out," I mumble, closing my eyes against the sickening swirl of white walls and bright lights. I lose some time, coming back to the faint pressure against my thigh, and then again to a dull pain in my arm, before blacking out altogether.

* * *

The next time I wake up it's to soft sheets, and the warmth of another person next to me. I stir, and immediately there's a hand bracing against my chest as the person beside me moves.

"Roy?" I hear, at the edge of my senses, and I pry my eyes open.

" _Jade_ ," I murmur, shifting and then arching at the swamp of sharp,  _immediate_ pain. "Gah!" My leg jerks, flinching upwards, and I'm suddenly very,  _very_ awake. God, my  _leg_.

"Yeah," she says softly, "you might not want to move for a bit. That's pretty nasty." I swallow, easing back against the bed and raising my left hand to rake back through my hair and take a fistful of it, to ground me. "I fixed your job," she comments, shifting to sit next to me, pressed against my right side and underneath the sprawl of my arm. "It's sewed up  _right_ now, and it looks like everything is holding. You should be fine."

"Doesn't feel that way," I mutter, and she makes a soft sound. I flick my eyes open as she touches my face, wincing at the gentle pressure against the — now that it's not blanked out by everything else — aching left side of my face. Right. One punch, and one backhand with Oliver's bow. There's probably some pretty nasty bruises over there.

"If it hurts you're still alive," she mocks, then sighs and slips off the bed. "Come on, I'll help you to the table but I'm not feeding you in bed. I am  _not_ that kind of woman, and I know you can pull your own weight just fine."

I manage a grin, accepting her hand when she offers it. "We wouldn't take each other any other way, right?"

It's true. I met Jade as a person, not as Cheshire, and I fell in love with  _Jade_ , not the mask. When she showed up in my window, Lian slung across her back, I was freaked out, but in the end it didn't matter. What are a couple masks between love, right? Our jobs don't define us as people, usually. But part of it is definitely that we both  _need_ to be totally independent. If I had to see her, or she had to see me, or we needed each other to survive, we would have both been dead a long time ago.

I clench my teeth to not shout when she pulls me up, gripping her wrist with probably enough force to bruise. It says something about us that she doesn't even mention it, pulling my arm around her shoulders and all but carrying me out of what must be the bedroom and into some kind of combined living room and kitchen area. She drops me off at the table none too gently, into a chair, and heads for the kitchen. The wood's cold against my back, and I'm thankful that apparently she managed to save my boxers in her scissoring last night.

"Try not to pass out on me again, hm, Roy? That'd be pretty sad even for you."

"Yeah, working on it." I lean back, stretching my leg out and taking slow, even breaths to try and keep the worst of the pain at bay.

"So?" she demands, dropping a bowl of some kind of sugary looking cereal in front of me. "You have some explaining to do."

"Cereal?" I ask roughly, and she gives a flippant little shrug.

"My sister left it here. It's full of sugar, and looks unappetizing enough to be something you'd enjoy." I give her a small grin, reaching across the table — despite the unpleasant twinge of my arm — to take her hand. She rolls her eyes, but lets me. "Explain,  _now_. You should have been at a hospital, or under Red Archer's care, with injuries like this. You should  _not_  have been bleeding at my front door. The address of which you are  _not supposed to have_."

I ignore the last bit, taking a bite and savoring the explosion of taste on my tongue, even though it hurts to chew. "Yeah, well  _Oliver_ is the one who shot me, so…" I get two more bites in before the silence gets to me, and I look up. Jade is completely,  _utterly_ , still. It's… It's really fucking creepy. "Jade?"

"Why?" she demands.

I drop the spoon, straightening up and grasping her hand a little firmer. "Owlman," I explain, trying to cushion things, "he stopped by and apparently told Oliver about the two of us. He came at me while I was restocking."

She yanks her hand out of my grip, pulling away from the table, and I try to follow her instinctively but the pain doubles me over against the table with a gasp. "He knows, and you came  _here?_ " she hisses. "You put Lian in  _danger_  like that?!"

"No, it's not—"

"What if I hadn't been here, Roy?! Or what if I hadn't stayed up all night making sure you didn't die on me and he came for  _her?_ What were you  _thinking_?" She's so angry, lips twisted in a snarl and hands curled like she wants to tear me apart. Considering one of her regular weapons is sedative and poison laced nails, that's probably not too far off the mark.

"Jade, I  _didn't_ , I  _swear_. I would never have come here if I thought he could track me, I was  _careful_." I manage to get to my feet, leaning heavily against the table but unable to sit in the face of her rage. "You  _know_ I can be careful. I would  _never_ put Lian, or  _you_ , in that kind of danger.  _Never_." I hold out a hand to her, asking,  _pleading_.

She glares at me, but huffs out a breath and steps forward, taking my hand. "Sit down," she demands, and then more softly, "idiot."

I collapse back into the chair, squeezing my eyes shut for a second and tilting my head back to somehow  _will_ my leg into not hurting so badly. "Never, Jade.  _Never_ ," I repeat. Her free hand slips through my hair, and I lean into it. "Believe me?"

"Yes," she says, grudgingly, but with Jade that's like a full fledged apology. I've never loved anyone else like her, even  _with_ her temper, and her colder, rougher moments. "Eat your food," she orders, tugging loose from my grip and stepping away, moving back into the kitchen area and starting to clear the counter area.

I smile at her back, reaching back for the cereal again.

So, what happens now? It's kind of hard to plan a future when you're bleeding out and dying, or trying to make it across the city with a hole in your leg, so I really hadn't thought this far ahead. Okay so, Oliver's thrown me out. Who  _knows_  if that's permanent? We've never had a fight like this, but we're  _family_. He's probably not going to totally throw me out over this, right? He'll calm down eventually, and I can talk to him then. We should be alright. I mean, he's had all  _kinds_ of flings behind my back, I'm sure I can have  _one_.

So, that's fine. I'll tough things out for a month or so, let myself heal and let him calm down, and then I'll fix things.

Good, planning done.

I finish the cereal, which she snags off the table, and look over at my arm. It looks a lot better than the half-assed job I pulled off last night, when I was high on painkillers. The edges are all tucked in, and the bandages are a crisp white and not stained with smears of my own blood from where it was left on my hands. I let my gaze fall down to my leg.  _That_  looks much better too. Not bleeding and firmly wrapped and tied to keep it that way. And—

I blink, staring down.

"These are not my boxers," I inform the room at large. I hear Jade snort from the kitchen, as I stare at the offending dark blue pair of underwear. These are not the same tighter, black ones that I had underneath my costume. Hey, sometimes the pants gets ripped, and I prefer not to flash people with weird colors that don't match my normal color scheme. It kind of ruins the effect. "I don't  _own_  blue boxers, do I?" I… I think maybe I might have one pair, somewhere, but when I'm diving in and out of costume it's better not to have to change underwear too if I can help it. All colors but red and black pretty much fell by the wayside. I look up, at Jade, as she sets aside my bowl in a drying rack. "Where did you  _get_ these?"

She turns to me, wiping her hands off in a dish towel and dropping it off on the counter. She's smirking, one eyebrow raised. "Are you asking the League of Shadows member how she found you boxers?" I blink, kind of gaping, and her smirk gets a little edge to it. "I have pants for you, too."

"But,  _where_?" I sputter, and she laughs, walking towards me.

"Relax," she tells me, coming to sit on the table corner next to me. "I got some of my minions to break into your room and steal them. It wasn't so hard, and I wasn't going to leave you stuck here from lack of pants."

I… wow. Okay, one scenario that didn't even cross my mind. I grin up at her. "Girlfriend asks her ninja buddies to break into my room and steal my pants and underwear. There's a first."

"Oh?" she asks imperiously. "Have you had  _other_ girlfriends with ninja 'buddies'?"

I lean forward, touching her thigh and pressing a soft kiss to her right knee. "Absolutely not. That's all you, Jade." She gives a faint smile, and reaches down to gently trace fingers over the side of my face again. Which hurts, but not nearly as badly as my leg, so whatever.

"Come on." She slips off the table and offers me her hand again, and with a wince I take it. I've got a little practice now, and I manage to swing my weight and brace against the table enough that it doesn't hurt as blindingly as the first time. At least she's tall enough — just two inches shorter than me, which really isn't  _anything_  — to be able to help me move easily. If she were shorter, this could have been totally impossible.

She helps me over to the couch, coffee table in front of it, and across from a TV hung up against the wall, and helps me down onto it. "Appreciated," I say with a grin as soon as I can manage it, and she gives a little scoff.

"Stay," she orders me, and I raise my arms in surrender.

My back is against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out along the cushions, and I take the opportunity as she disappears back behind me and out of my range of vision to take a look at myself. Apart from my arm, and my leg, and whatever kind of bruises are on the left side of my face, the only other injury I've got is a fairly large bruise on my left side that must be from Oliver's boot. It aches a bit, but I think it's just a bruise for the most part. Definitely the smallest of my injuries.

I hear a door close, and the nearly silent pad of Jade's footsteps — nearly because she's not trying, not because she's not that good — across the carpet as she comes back towards me. She rounds back into my vision, and my throat goes tight. In her arms is a small bundle of blankets, which she kneels down to shift into my arms. I take it without thinking, shifting the mass of fabric until I can see in to wide green eyes —  _my_ eyes — and a head nearly covered in soft black hair.

" _Lian_ ," I murmur, reaching in to meet the tiny hand that grasps up at me. I've spent time with our daughter, of  _course_ , and with Jade, but not  _enough._ Holding her for an hour or two in snatched moments between Jade's heroism and my work is rough. It's hard to be away from her for so long; so every time I see her feels like that first time that Jade put her in my arms and informed me that I should get my shit together, because she was  _mine_.

Lian coos up at me, lips curling in a tiny smile, and my heart  _melts_. She's  _mine_ , how  _amazing_ is that? I swallow, cradling her and letting her fingers curl around one of mine, grasping tight. Jade moves up to sit on the arm behind me, her lips pressing against the crown of my head as she leans over me.

"How is she?" I ask, unable to help myself.

"Still a baby," Jade answers quietly, her hand grasping at my other shoulder for balance. Her nails dig into my skin a bit, but I barely even notice. "Amazingly, considering you're her father, she's a perfect angel."

I tilt my head back into her, looking up to meet her eyes. "Considering  _me?_ " I say with a soft laugh. "Try both of us, Jade."

She gives a careless shrug. "Fair enough, I suppose I can't put  _all_ the blame on you." Her fingers massage into my shoulder, and I close my eyes to enjoy the feeling. Despite all the pain, and the aches, the simple touch of her hand still feels good. Her other hand slips across my scalp, dragging through my hair, and I give a soft sigh.

"You're distracting me from Lian," I let her know, aiming for a grumble but coming out more as a vague notification.

"She'll be alright," Jade answers easily, alternating between lightly scratching and massaging at my scalp, which feels  _so_ good. I hum another breath of satisfaction, pushing up into her hand like a cat.

"She's got you," I murmur sleepily, feeling my breathing slow. "How could she not be?" I lower my other arm to cradle Lian as well, very gently pulling my finger from her grasp.

"Fool that you are, I still love you, Roy."

"Mmmm… Love you too."


	12. The Snap of a String

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! You didn't really think Roy got off that easily, did you? XD There's one more chapter of his after this too, just so you guys know. Enjoy!

I stir, shifting on whatever I'm lying on and wincing at the spike of pain up and down my leg. Right, not so much with the moving. I pry my eyes open, feeling fuzzy, and squint in confusion at the artificially lit ceiling. It was, morning, wasn't it? I didn't just go back to sleep for all those hours, right?

Injuries, and a lot of blood loss, so it's possible, but I thought I was kind of trained to not do that anymore.

There's a thick comforter wrapped over me, on the — I glance down, turning my head to the left — couch, and a pillow beneath my head. Was I really so unconscious to not notice all of this? That's a lot of moving me around for me to sleep through. Yeesh, I guess the injuries took a bigger toll on me than I thought they did.

"Jade?" I ask, groggily. I very carefully push myself up to be propped up on the arm again, shuddering at the pain but clenching my teeth through it. There's no answer to my question, and I wrap my left arm around my stomach — mostly just to have something to hold onto — as I breathe and force the pain away.

"Jade?" I call, out into the apartment.

Nothing.

Worry sparks, and I get about halfway up before the pain gets to me and I collapse back onto the couch. Sideways now, with my legs partially off it, but still firmly  _not_ going anywhere. Not on my own. I bite my tongue, propped up on the arm and trying to ignore the crippling injury. I force my eyes open from where they'd automatically clenched shut, and my gaze falls on a collection of items on the coffee table next to me.

A glass of water, a small bottle of what looks like some kind of painkiller, and a folded piece of paper. I reach for the painkillers first, unscrewing the cap and swallowing three dry. They grate down my throat, but I've swallowed much bigger pills — anti-toxins, mostly — without help. I set those back down, wincing at the stretch of the bruised area on my ribs and the press of the wound in my arm against the couch.

I stare at the piece of paper for a moment before reaching for it. She had to go out, right? Hero work comes at all hours, I know that better than pretty much anyone else. With Oliver as angry as he is things are going to be rough for a while, they'll need to step up their game to keep him challenged until he calms down again. Oliver's efficient when he's angry, those are probably the times we get the most done, honestly.

I lean back against the arm of the couch, unfolding the paper and straightening it out.

_I'm sorry._

Because she had to duck out, right?  _Right_.

_It isn't safe for Lian to be in Star City anymore, and you're not welcome where I'm going. I can't promise I will ever return; I will not risk our daughter to any of the Crime Syndicate. I'll watch the news for you, Roy, be careful and take care of yourself._

_The apartment is paid through for two months, you are welcome to everything in it. I had your clothes retrieved, and extra supplies to rebandage your injuries brought in. You should be able to live here until you're able to travel, and then I would leave Star City as soon as you can._

_Good luck, Roy. I will take care of Lian._

I laugh. Laugh because what else can I do? What am I  _supposed_  to do? I laugh, and laugh, until my chest aches and the paper is a crumpled ball in my fist, and then I fling it across the room with a wordless shout. My breath comes sharp, fast,  _shallow_ , as my hands curl into fists in the blankets, and then up through my hair.

You're kidding me. You're  _fucking_  kidding me. She's just— She's going to—

"No," I whisper, my hands tugging at my hair and dragging my head back, against the couch.  _No_.

 _Good timing_ , whispers Oliver's voice in my head, and I reach for the water and fling that across the room too with another shout that might have some kind of basis of 'shut up' in English. Maybe. It shatters impressively against the wall, and for a moment I feel better, but it just doesn't  _last_.

She  _left_. She just  _left_ me. After Oliver put an arrow through me, told me he'd  _kill_ me if I ever crossed paths with him again, I thought she'd be… I don't know, fucking  _here_? Just for one damn day where I could relax and enjoy time with her, with—

 _Lian_.

Jade took  _Lian_. My  _daughter_.

I wrench off the couch, desperate and totally  _heedless_ of the pain until my leg buckles underneath me and I collapse to the floor, my side and shoulder smacking against the edge of the coffee table as I go down. I'm stunned for a second, too out of it to feel, and then the agony sweeps up my hip like I'm on  _fire_ , and I give a strangled scream. I curl my hand into the blanket I dragged partially with me to stop myself from clutching at my leg, curling in on myself in instinctive,  _shaking_ reaction to the pain.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I breathe in sharp gasps until it fades a bit and I can take a deep, shaking breath instead. It comes out in hitched starts and stops, the tears slipping down my cheeks.

I  _can't_  go after them. I can barely fucking  _walk_ , there's no way I could get to her. No way I could  _find_  her. She has my daughter and I'm helpless to go after her, I'm  _stuck_ back here. My family is gone, both sets of them, and I'm crippled. I'm a  _fucking_ cripple until I heal.

What the hell am I supposed to do  _now?_ Oliver threw me out, Jade left me in the dust, and that's everyone in the world that I'm close with. I've got friends, sure, but not like  _them_. Not like my legal father — more like an older brother, really — or my… my Jade. My  _Cheshire_. Or Lian, a fucking  _miracle_ wrapped in fragile skin and surrounded by enough weapons between me and her mother to start an army. They're all I have, all I've ever really cared about.

I sink against the floor, turning my face into the carpet and trembling through the pain and the aching,  _stinging_ hole in my chest where there should be long black hair and a pair of wide, bright green eyes. The tears come, and I break, shattering against the floor where no one can see.

Where no one has to know.

* * *

In the next few weeks I find out a lot of things.

First, I am persona non grata in every gang or masked hideout that exists, including most bars. Oliver put out the word — and the goddamn Owlman backed it up — that anyone who associates with me is  _meat_ , so I get turned away from just about everywhere that I've called safe in the entire city. I'm totally excluded from all members of the Crime Syndicate, including all the lesser known people and the damn  _minions_. What the  _fuck?_

Second, Oliver has publicly disowned me. Not privately, or even publicly among the masked crowd, no. He  _disowned_ me,  _legally_ , on fucking  _television_. Any right I had to the Queen name is gone, as is my ability to do  _anything_. Now I'm, 'Roy Harper, that guy who used to be Oliver Queen's son.'

Third, I am completely cut off. Everything I had a share in, every access code I had, every fucking  _cent_ I ever owned, is  _gone_. Leached away, or transferred, or changed. I don't have anything at all. Not a penny to my name except the hundred or so dollars I had on me as Arsenal, and no access to  _anything_ that used to be mine. I'm literally homeless, broke, and all  _but_ literally exiled. Oliver owns a  _lot_ of the city, and everything that's his — legally  _or_  illegally — won't even let me past the doors.

This is… This is so unbelievably  _fucked_.

I can walk now, at least. With a heavy limp, and I don't have a range of much more than about three blocks before my leg threatens to buckle, but I'm just glad to be able to move around on my own again. It's not easy, but it was better than dragging myself through Jade's apartment by attaching myself to walls, or finding makeshift crutches and canes. Even if I sometimes have to sink down against walls and breathe through it until I can move again, that's better than it was.

The worst part of this, so far, is I'm stuck here. I can't get  _out_ of Star City. I'm too well known, and I've got this suspicion the heroes — not Cheshire, or the League, but the rest of Oliver's enemies — are hunting me. Trying to get out of Gotham with my gear is  _begging_  to be found and taken out, or stolen from. After all, I'm not under Oliver's protection anymore, and no one has any idea that 'Roy Harper' is a person not to be fucked with all on my own. Publicly, outside of the masks, I was just a mini version of Oliver. A party boy, a kid who didn't have to grow up, taking Oliver's place after he became the actual leader of Queen Consolidated.

I wonder if he's actually told anyone what I did, or if he's just citing 'difference of opinion' or some kind of shit like that.

Point being, if I try and leave Star City like this I'm not going to make it. Or I'll make it, but all my stuff will be gone and some lucky thief is going to find out that Roy Harper is, or was, Arsenal. That would be bad. I'll have enough trouble hiding as it is, richest young twenties guy in Star City, after all. And I was in the news a  _lot_. To keep up appearances, totally, it's not like I enjoyed the parties, or the socializing, or the sex.

Nah.  _Totally_ not.

…

 _Yeah_ , I did. Not because I could be drunk, and irresponsible, and just enjoy myself, but because my whole 'I'll have to stab you if you step out of line' thing aside, I actually  _like_ people. I like being the center of attention, I  _like_  socializing and hanging out, and watching people make idiots of themselves when they've gotten themselves over-intoxicated on whatever substance they've been having.

It's  _fun_ , and I didn't realize how much I lived for it until it was  _gone_.

Being alone is… It's  _awful_. I hate the silence, I hate not being around anyone who isn't glaring, or stony silent. No one  _likes_ me, and it's tearing apart something in me that I didn't even know was a thing. I didn't think I could get  _lonely_ , not in just a 'friends' way. Sure, 'lonely' as a euphemism for having sex, or a companion, but never just because no one is talking to me.

I threw my phone away, after shattering it into about a million pieces, after the first four days. First because no one would answer me — not even any of the other 'sidekicks' that I thought of as friends, like Lightning and Grid — and then when I tried something one day and it cheerily informed me that I didn't have any kind of service anymore, and I should probably consult my company about that. That was the day I figured out that I was totally cut off.

That was a  _bad_ day _._

Every time I turn around it seems like more things are going wrong, or I realize more ways that I'm royally screwed as long as I'm in Star City.

I need  _out_ , but I don't have the money for any kind of transport that would get me safely out. I have  _considered_ hijacking a taxi as Arsenal and getting him to take me outside city limits, but that seems like a bad idea. I've also considered just taking someone's car, but not only am I a  _really_ obvious face to be stealing anything, but there's a lot of things that could go really, terribly wrong with that if the car was reported immediately and the cops tracked me down. Start with the 'Roy Harper is a criminal' part, and work your way all the way back to 'my, what lovely gear you have back here that seems to be, hm… Arsenal'.

Yeah, that'll go  _great_.

I can't get caught, there's too many complications — and way too high a chance of a casual arrow through the throat while I'm behind bars — and my ability to evade cops while my leg is screwed is pretty much zilch. They could run me down, if they don't just shoot me, and the only way out would be to kill them all. I don't have a  _problem_ with that, but the chances that I could kill them all before one of them got a lucky shot in or called in a  _manhunt_ on me is… well… Bad.

So, I need out of the city, and I need the money to do it safely. I'll have to do all of it pretty fast.

The easiest ways are by knocking over smaller businesses, the places without guards. I could do that with my eyes closed. But the take isn't big, and if I draw too much attention than Oliver will come down on me like a hammer, I'm sure. Bows aren't subtle, and I only have so much ammo for my gun. I can't waste it. Arrows can be retrieved, and most of the time used again. Bullets, not so much.

So I need a large take, fast, and without any complications with cops. That rules out banks — not that I have the tech on me to rob a bank on my own — and most other places where large sums of cash are on hand. Private is probably easier than a business. Catching someone on their own, with a lot of cash on hand. But that's not  _easy_. Where the hell would I get information like that?

Well… Where have  _I_ carried massive amounts of cash on hand, that also had weak points in security? I'm a  _criminal_ , I should  _notice_ shit like this, shouldn't I? I should notice it even more, since I'm a  _rich_  criminal. Or, I was.

Well, at clubs. But that was me, not most regular people. Most regular people don't carry upwards of a thousand dollars on them in regular travel. That's reserved for the rich, or the seriously protected. They need to be going somewhere, doing something that requires a lot of money. Even strip clubs don't invite having that much cash in the pocket. Well, for normal people.

Normal people need to go somewhere and retrieve that much money, usually in a couple pieces at a time, which means shady deals or big winnings. Winnings.

 _Gambling_.

One place you can always count on people to have money is at a casino, and  _oh_  does Star City have one. It's guarded, sure, but the front windows are glass and completely transparent, and the guards only guard the actual floor to prevent stealing, or cheating in the card games. The parking lot is huge, and very unpatrolled. It has cameras, sure, but not actual physical people. It's easy to get around cameras.

People come out of casinos with cash, lots of cash, and it happens pretty regularly. Winners of the night.

Now some people might be staying at the attached hotel and go up to deposit it there, or take it immediately to an ATM for safekeeping, but a lot of winners in casinos are intoxicated, drunk, and not likely to be that conscious about safety procedures. They'll call a taxi, or head home with friends, or a dozen different ways of getting back somewhere to sleep that'll involve them leaving the security of the casino and heading across the parking lot. Easy pickings, if you're good at surprise.

And me? I'm  _good_  at surprise.

I have enough money to buy a cheap pair of binoculars from somewhere, or just steal a laptop off someone to use as a starting point to hack into security systems. That's not so hard. From there it would be a case of hiding and watching the casino; waiting for the people who win big, get excited, and head home. Preferably alone, or with just one friend. I wouldn't even need to get everything I need with just one person.

If I'm parked out there for a night, it would be easy to take down two or three people and combine their cash pools. That's probably easier than waiting for the one,  _big_ , target to come through and having to pick him or her out specifically. Easier to do several, leave them either unconscious or dead, and continue on my way. It's small, it's a single night of work, it won't be physically taxing, and it's unlikely to get me targeted by the cops unless I do something remarkably stupid.

Then again, doing remarkably stupid things is apparently a talent of mine. Ask  _anyone_  I know.

Point being that it  _shouldn't_ be hard, and it should get me enough to get out of the city. I can hide for a day or two, wait for the media coverage to die down from the 'casino killer/robber' and then head off on my merry way, no one the wiser.

When I have the money I can put together enough information and tools to get the hell out of Star City safely. Then, who knows? I could try and find Jade and Lian, or I could just find somewhere quiet to hide for a while.

 _Shockingly_ , read my sarcasm, I'm pretty sure Oliver is permanently pissed at me. You don't go to these kinds of lengths — cutting someone off from everything — without intending to actually, you know,  _go to those kinds of lengths_. If he was going to take me back he would have done something easier to reverse, right? Something a lot simpler to fix than this ban he's set on me through the Crime Syndicate, and everyone he owns legally or otherwise.

It's a dick move, cutting me off from  _everything_ like this, but whatever. There's nothing I can do about it, and I've got this sneaking suspicion that if I call him up he's going to try and track me down and kill me. Probably better to wait at least a few months, if not over six, to even try contacting him again. If I'm still cut off at that point, and if he hasn't tried talking to me.

Bastard.

For now, I'll just leave Star City. Oliver can have his damn territory all to himself, and I'll go off to my own corner of the world. We'll see how long he lasts without me, since he seems to have forgotten that  _I_  make most of his stuff. Sure, he can do the basics by himself now that he's got the machines, but all the  _new_  things, or all the upgrades to our basic stuff? Yeah, that was  _me_.

He'll figure that out too, when he realizes he needs something specific to disable a metahuman, or take out something dangerous and unique. Let's see him deal with it then,  _without_  me to invent something.

He'll have to call Owlman; won't that go over well?

He can call the big bad Owl and ask for a favor, and Owlman will give his patented little sneer and just fix the problem himself. Man, I'd pay money to watch that happen. Oliver hates  _nothing_  quite so much as blows to his pride, and Owlman is so  _very_  good at dealing those out.

At least, I'd pay money if I  _had_  any.

Let's fix that.

* * *

The arrow sinks into my target with what I can imagine is a meaty thud and the slice of metal against flesh, and he drops pretty much instantly. I set my bow down and get up, ignoring the by now familiar flash of pain from my leg, and head for the downed man. The collar of my coat is pulled high — clothes I already had, but didn't need before — to hide most of my face, and I've got my mask and gloves on.

They're both pretty red, and don't quite fit in with the rest of my clothing — black, to blend in with the night — but unless a security guard is paying very close attention it should be fine. Better to have someone notice me now, by the mask and gloves, then to leave fingerprints or a face on camera.

I stroll across the parking lot like I belong there, not giving any of those telltale signs that most idiots do when they're doing something suspicious. The hunched shoulders, or lowered head, or looking around like they're trying to find out if anyone else is near them. No. I walk straight, head held high and my stride steady. Like I belong.

I get to my target, where I downed him just behind the very nice bus that I picked out when I scoped the area out. For  _some_  convenient reason, it's pretty close to the front. Actually, it's not some reason. I  _know_  why.

The casino's buses, or shuttles if that's what you want to call them, park right next to the entrance so that the guests can enter and exit them without having to walk any kind of distance. It's fairly late, so there's still two parked here, and everyone has to walk past them to get to the rest of the parking lots and their cars. There's a nice spot — I hacked into the security cameras and checked what they covered — just around the front of the buses that doesn't show up on security feeds.

It's lit, pretty brightly, but that's not a problem. No one else is out here, after all.

This is my second target of the night. The first had a couple thousand, a younger woman that I took out neatly and cleanly with an arrow to the side of the head. There's a bit of a bloodstain on the ground beside the buses, but it's not so bad. Nothing anyone would notice unless they were looking for it, not at night and with the already dark material of the parking lot. Her body, on the other hand, is safely stored — for at  _least_  the next few hours, until it hits the peak night hours and they need all the buses — underneath the furthest bus. The one in the back, the last one they'll pull out.

I should be  _long_  gone by the time that happens.

I head up to my second target's collapsed form, sinking down beside him and, firstly, retrieving my arrow from his throat with a violent wrench. It's not the  _cleanest_  death, but ah well. Can't get them all perfectly, and it's not like he suffered for too long. I could think up much worse ways to kill someone. I have on quite a few occasions.

I tuck the arrow inside my coat — who  _cares_  if blood gets on it? No one's going to see the inside of it but me, after all — and reach down, pulling open  _his_  coat and reaching for where I saw him stash the neat bundle of cash the casino paid out to him. I take it, storing that on the opposite side so I don't end up with blood streaked money — Star City banks aren't particular, but best to keep things safe just in case — and reach back in. I pat him down briefly for anything else of value he might have — he's got a golden ring, that might sell for a few hundred, that I pocket — and my gloved fingers brush against something else, on an inside pocket of his coat. One of those ones that's really  _not_  supposed to be noticed by anyone but the person who bought the coat, or anyone who knows specifically where it is.

I pull the items out, and raise an eyebrow as I open my hand and take in the collection.

A syringe, empty, a small package filled with a white powder that I'm almost sure is heroin, though I'm definitely not sniffing to check, a decent length of rubber tubing, a lighter, and a small bandage of the 'tie this to your arm to stop small puncture wounds from bleeding' variety. So, target number two was a serious junkie, if this little stash is any kind of indication. Well, what a  _shame_  for him that he chose to be here tonight. Worse still that he drew my attention by being alone, and a winner.

I've been around a  _lot_  of drugs, though I can't say I've ever tried something as very, very addictive as heroin. Oliver wouldn't stand for me getting addicted to anything; he at least got  _that_  section of parenting right. I've smoked some pot, gotten drunk more times than I can count or remember, tried a handful of pills in various shapes and sizes, and it's nice  _enough_. I wasn't a huge fan of the hazed outlook on life that I got from most of the pills, so I didn't get as into any kind of drugs as a lot of the other high class socialites that Oliver and I were forced to spend time with. Everyone reacts differently, everyone  _feels_  differently, so I guess I just got the short end of the stick.

Though,  _actually?_  A hazed perspective might be really nice right about now. Not  _now_ , now, but when I'm somewhere safe. Somewhere alone with my thoughts, which is  _just_  where I  _don't_  want to be. Inevitably they fall back to Jade, and Lian, and Oliver, and all the people that want me dead or don't want me around them anymore.

I tuck the handful of supplies inside my coat as well.

That done, I grab ahold of target number two's arms — lifting him up so his bleeding neck doesn't leave a really  _telling_  streak of blood — and dragging him across the pavement to throw him in with the first one. His weight hurts my leg like a  _bitch_ , but I clench my teeth and deal with it. I dust my hands off, pull my coat a little around myself like I'm cold, and hustle back off across the parking lot.

Don't just be that one guy walking back and forth for no apparent reason. Look different each time, make them question if it's really the same person in case they've only seen you once out of the three times. Basic strategies. I'm not much for stealth, usually, but I picked up a lot of tricks from Talon when I worked with him. That kid was a freaking  _master_.

I get back to my vantage point, sitting down against the alley wall once I've gotten over the fence — chainlink with barbed wire, easy to jump or climb if you've got gloves on, and with nice big holes to shoot through — and reaching inside for the bundle of cash I retrieved from target number two. I spare a glance down the alley, and then back towards the casino, to make sure I'm alone before I start counting.

My leg throbs, but I ignore it.

I take apart the loose tie holding the cash together, flicking through it and silently filing the numbers away in my head. A couple more thousand, that's good. One or two more people and I should be set with all the cash I'll need to get out of Star City, a couple more after that — if it's not too late, or too crowded — and I could actually build up a pretty decent stack of cash for my life past leaving, too.

That might be good to do, now that I think about it. I'll see how things end up after I have what I need, and how badly my leg is hurting by then. I still have to get back to Jade's apartment once this is done, after all. I really don't want to tax the healing injury any more than I have to; it has a nasty tendency to get achy and  _really_  painful after a day when I push myself too hard. I've done it a couple times, and the days after I pretty much have to limit myself to moving from the bed, to the table, to the couch, and repeat.

It sucks.

I tuck the cash away with the store from target number one, and reach for my bow and the terribly cheap binoculars sitting next to it. I retrieve the arrow from inside my coat, fitting it to the string and checking out of habit, once, to make sure it draws smoothly before picking the binoculars up. Next, I hold the bow in my left hand, by the limb, and turn my head over to the fence, raising the binoculars to my face — and wincing at the awful quality — and peering over at the casino. They're already set for this range, so luckily I don't have to fiddle with the knobs, again. Oh I  _hate_  these things.

I'm used to so much higher quality gear than this  _crap_. But beggars can't be choosers. I needed something to observe, and the laptop sitting on the other side of me — still hacked into the cameras — wasn't enough. That's only so many angles, and it doesn't tell me if the person is walking a different direction than I need them to go. Personal observation through these pieces of crap,  _unfortunately_ , does.

I peer towards the casino, sitting back against the alley wall and settling in to wait, again. Every fifteen or so seconds I check the security cameras, my screen set to the ones on the main floor, around the cashier station and the lower rate machines and games. Most of those higher ones pay out maybe once a week, if that, but the smaller ones do so more often, just for less. I don't need to catch a  _huge_  winner, I just need some smaller ones that have managed a decent amount.

It takes a while — there was nearly a two hour gap between targets one and two — but eventually I pick out another target. Female, alone, in heels that are ridiculously tall, and turning in an impressive stack of chips to one of the cashier stations. They hand her a wad of cash with a smile — hiding the 'fuck you, you're taking money from my employer' background of these places — and she wobbles her way to the door. I take another quick glance around the cameras to make sure no one is following her, and then switch over to the binoculars to watch her leave the casino doors.

She reaches into her purse, hanging on her left arm, and retrieves — after a rather impressively  _long_  amount of fumbling — a set of car keys. Hell, I'll be doing the world a favor with this one. She's obviously too intoxicated to be driving.  _No one_  wears heels that high out to a public place, when they're alone, unless they know how to wear them. So, her wobbling is from a lack of balance, aka alcohol, and not just her wearing things she doesn't know how to walk in.

I lift my bow, drawing close to the fence and sighting down the line of the arrow.

I'm an archer, and I've been one since I was a  _kid._  I have  _damn_  good eyesight, especially for farther targets, and I don't need the binoculars to let me find her small form. I take in a slow breath, drawing the string tight and taking a moment to calculate wind — there's a slight breeze, but nothing that should affect the arrow negatively — the distance, her rate of movement, and the arc I'll have to put on it to hit her. It feels as natural as the breath.

I let the arrow go with the exhale, the projectile arching through one of the holes in the fence and high into the air, and I give a tight little grin as she rounds the buses and it comes down on top of her in the same moment. She collapses like a sack of potatoes, and I let myself feel the slight warmth of pride in my chest.

Why yes, I  _am_  a badass. How kind of you to notice!

I repeat my process, setting my tools aside before climbing the fence — up and down, because there's no way I'm jumping down with a fucked leg — and setting off again. Change the gait, allow my limp to come into play more heavily, and pull my shoulders in a bit to give the impression of someone with not-so-great posture. Still confident, or at least belonging, but not so much the straight, proud man I was the last time I went this way, or the cold one who came back.

Talon taught me  _so_ much, seriously. It's really a shame the Jokester killed him off, he was a decent guy.

I mean, my version of 'decent' is fucked by most people's standards, I think — considering I count most of my murderer friends, or criminals — but Talon was a good kid. Quiet, pretty anti-social, but I figured him out. So long as I didn't touch him without permission, we worked together just fine. He was  _damn_ good at his job, and for an abused to hell kid — where  _else_ could all of those marks have come from but Owlman beating the crap out of him? — he wasn't nearly as jumpy, or as straight out  _mean_ as I expected him to be. Even around Owlman, he seemed just fine.

It didn't feel right to me — a kid with Talon's skill level, trapped with the one person who wouldn't appreciate it — but Oliver pretty cleanly snapped any kind of idea I had for helping him. It was  _Owlman_ , after all, and there was no way in hell Oliver was going to let me commit suicide by trying to take away his toy. He even made sure that I knew to never,  _never_ , let Owlman know that I liked Talon anything more than incidentally.  _If_ I'd been allowed to still be around Talon after that, Owlman probably would have taken it out on my sorta-friend, and yeah, that was enough to stop me.  _I_ didn't want to be the cause of any more pain to the kid. I think I might have actually counted him as one of my best friends, just because I knew that he was never going to turn on me. Not by his own choice, anyway.

Most of my other 'friends' in the villain communities had their own agendas, and I always knew that if they decided I needed to be out of the picture for those agendas to happen, well, that would be the end of that friendship. Lightning always made it clear that the other speedsters were more important to him than any of the rest of us, Superwoman's various incarnations of Supergirl were always halfway looking to dethrone her, and Ultraboy, well... He's firmly under Ultraman's thumb, with the threat of slow death hanging over his head if he ever tried to disobey. He only ever barely played friendly with the rest of us. Talon, on the other hand, never pretended to be anything that he wasn't. He was Owlman's weapon, and as long as I wasn't the target he was never going to turn and try and kill me. Hurt me, sure, if I crossed a line, but that was my own fault.

I get to the other side of the parking lot, leaning down next to the girl and giving a little smirk. Yeah, I thought that arrow was a good shot. It came down into her collarbone, through her neck, probably drove her into at least shock, if not killing her, pretty much instantly. That's good.

I'm not much a fan of causing people excess pain if I don't have to, or they don't  _deserve_  it. Sure, I kill people, but murder is one thing and torture is another altogether. If you torture someone it should be for a real, legitimate reason, not just because you happen to need what they're carrying. A message, or a threat, or to drive a point home.  _Literally_ , for that last one. But it shouldn't be a casual thing; that's reserved for the real psychotics, or the fucked up percent of society that Oliver and I made occasional use of.

 _I_  think they're better off locked away, personally, but sometimes you just need a guy who can torture anyone you want without blinking, and be really  _mean_  about it.

I wrench the arrow out, wincing a bit at the spurt of blood that stains the pavement. Well, damn. That's pretty obvious, and if anyone comes this direction apart from drunk people, or my targets, they're likely to notice it. Well,  _that_ cuts my plans for the evening short; should have been more careful about that. Ah well, I'll have to make do with whatever she has. It looked like a pretty decent stack of cash, it's probably enough for the basics.

I open her purse, retrieving the bundle, and then take the same brief look through the pockets of it to make sure she's not carrying anything else I could make use of. Nope, not a thing. Ah well, the cash should be enough.

She's easier to drag than my last target, and this time I don't bother lifting the body at the awkward angle it would take to keep her from streaking blood along the pavement. There's  _no_  point with a stain like the one back there, and I'm leaving anyway. Someone will find this pretty quickly, and I'll get to watch the news explosion through the filters of television, safely back at Jade's apartment.

I toss her without really bothering to do it all the way — speaking of Talon, he would have been  _pissed_  to see me half-ass a job like this — and make my way back across the parking lot for the last time. I don't really bother with the stealth this time — another thing that would have pissed him off, as much as he was ever really 'pissed' — since it doesn't matter if I get noticed anymore. They'll look at the security feeds once they find my targets, and they'll notice that the same guy walks across the parking lot a bunch, enough times to measure up with their list of victims.

The Arsenal name will get the blame, since people are bound to see my mask and gloves when they're actually looking, and Oliver might be a little irritated but there shouldn't be enough evidence to catch me. By the time he figures things out, or tracks me down, I'll be long gone. I don't need anything more than the cash, and to make a few phone calls to the right people.

Luckily, the people I know that hold the safe, private ways in and out of Star City are not under Oliver's control, and they very carefully keep things confidential. Even better, Oliver's always known better than to ostracize them too badly, so there's  _no way_  he'd risk threatening them not to deal with me. Those guys will work for anyone who has the cash they want, and any attempt Oliver would make to control them would be met by a seriously cold shoulder. I know, he sent me to make that kind of a deal once.

Turns out, if you provide a service as valuable as they do — private, anonymous transport in and out of just about any major city, for the right price — you get to dictate your own terms of business. Even the  _Crime Syndicate_  doesn't touch that particular group of people, they're too useful in the long run. Even if they do occasionally transport people that the crime lords would rather not have around.

I climb the fence, carefully dropping down — first on my right leg, and then shifting weight slowly onto my left leg — and swallow down the pained lump in my throat before heading to collect my gear.

I leave the laptop there — I'm sure they'll find it, but that's just one thing that might point them somewhere that  _isn't_  me — as well as the binoculars because  _screw_ those things, and take my bow with me.

It only sort of fits under my coat, but luckily it just makes me look like I've got a slightly fucked up back, or a padded jacket. No one's going to look closely enough at me to figure things out, and if they do they're going to see the mask and gloves of Arsenal, and quickly turn the other way.

It's  _nice_  to have a reputation, sometimes.

I let the grin on my face stay wide, leaning back against the couch as I watch the news report.

They're confused, but again that great  _reputation_ comes into play. They spotted the mask, the gloves, and decided to pin the blame on Red Archer's 'criminal underground.' It tastes pretty sweet, I admit. After all, no one in the regular world knows that me and Oliver, as Red Archer and Arsenal, have fallen out. Sure, the criminal world knows, at least the one in Star City, but the normal news reporters, regular people?  _Nah_.

Oliver is probably pretty pissed at me, and  _oh_  does that make me pretty  _vindictively_  happy. He's taking the blame for my murders, and he's getting a lot of questionable news headlines about Red Archer killing innocent people, or some kind of conspiracy. It's  _great_.

I mean, people are used to Oliver killing, that's not news, but three totally random targets in front of a casino, without any kind of fanfare, warning, or message to the public? It doesn't make any sense as far as they're concerned. What would Red Archer be  _doing_ , to kill off three people like that with no reason?! I've been laughing my ass off all day, as they come up with wilder and wilder theories. I can just imagine people sitting around a table, trying to figure things out and quickly getting into the realm of the absurd.

Even  _better_ , I can imagine Oliver having to grin and grit his teeth through all this bullshit, and figure out how to get this attention off him. Or at least, make it work for him somehow. He's probably got people tracking down the names, and all important information, about the people I killed, which are only things I know because of the reports, to see if he can find some reason for wanting them dead, or something to tell the public to explain things. Even crime lords have to pander to public opinion a little bit.

Yeah,  _sucks_  being a scapegoat doesn't it you son of a bitch? Maybe next time we don't cut off our right hand man,  _hm_? Maybe we give him a damn chance to  _explain_  things, or just talk about it, before shooting him and leaving him to fend for himself,  _right_?

I might be a little bitter. Maybe.

I lean backwards on the couch, bending over the back of it to stretch. The bruises on my ribs have faded, totally healed up, and the wound in my arm is mostly closed too. It's gonna be a decent scar, but that's nothing new. I've got scars a plenty, comes with the territory.

My leg, on the other hand, is healing very slowly. Not unnaturally so, I mean it's a hell of a wound and I don't exactly have any metahuman bonuses helping, but it just feels like it's creeping. It's frustrating, but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not exactly in with any of the healing metahumans anymore, or the magic ones. I'm just going to have to rely on my own normal human body, and suffer through it until it's done. I'll get there.

It's healing just fine for where it should be, though maybe a bit behind because I'm not giving it the rest I really should be. Hey, I can't  _help_ that I've got shit to do. It's my arm I was really worried about, anyways, but that's  _totally_ fine. I can get away with a limp if I need to, become a true sniper and get away from the nearly-melee archery I'm used to, but a crippled arm? That would just ruin  _everything_.

If my arm didn't work I wouldn't be able to draw my bow, and that… Alright, scary thoughts be here. It  _didn't_  happen, let's leave it at that.

The three semi-celebrities on the TV — in a hastily constructed debate that's  _totally_ overkill for this few deaths — bring up the idea of some kind of secret conspiracy, where my three random targets are all secretly heroes, and I can't help the laugh.

Alright, that's enough of  _that_ for today. I can only handle so many paranoid idiots in a short period, even if they are  _seriously_  hilarious.

I could use a shower. They're a pain in the ass with my leg, since I have to undo and redo the bandage every time to keep it from doing anything...  _bad_ , and the wound is still really ugly looking, but I have a certain level of self respect and I refuse to smell awful even if it's just me hanging around. I could use a shave too, I haven't done that for maybe a... week, or so? I've got a decent scruff going on, and it's not a good look on me. I've had a lot of people tell me that, Oliver and Jade included.

Okay, so Jade took a knife to my face, after knocking me out, when she got fed up with the beard I was trying, but still.

I lever myself off the couch, with the now familiar method of swinging my weight ensuring that my leg doesn't shriek at me too badly; just a little, from the sudden rush of blood. I stretch my arms over my head, cracking each shoulder by craning it over the opposite one, with nice heavy cracks in each one. Oh, does that always feel  _good_.

I head for the bathroom — near the front of the house, just to the left of the opening corridor/coat hanging area — and get almost all the way there before a totally unexpected sound freezes me to the spot.

A phone rings.

I turn slowly, thinking for a moment that maybe, somehow, I've managed to  _actually_  start hearing shit that isn't there. But no, it rings a second time. From the kitchen.

I slip back through the doorway, limping my way over to where I can see it, and fix my gaze suspiciously on the simple, in a cradle, house phone cheerily lighting up with a ' _blocked_ ' caller ID. That's weird.

A little over three weeks I've been in this house, and that phone has never rung. Not  _once_. Not with telemarketers, or friends, absolutely no one. I figured that Jade either shut it off when she left, or that the only people who had her number were other heroes, who knew that she wasn't here anymore. Which would—

I all but run — which is a painful, clumsy thing that is probably about the least graceful succession of movements I have  _ever_  made — over to the phone, snagging it off the counter and hitting the accept button with suddenly desperate fingers.

"Yes?" I ask, holding my breath for a moment.

It could be Jade, she could be calling me, god I could  _see Lian again_. She'd be nice enough to do that, right? If I proved that I was good enough, that I could hide well enough not to put her in danger, she'd let me see my daughter again.  _Please_.

"Arsenal," comes a smooth, male voice that is most definitely  _not_  Jade. It being, you know, male. "Or have you given up that name?"

There's something about the voice that rings bells in my memories, but I can't place it. Wherever I remember that voice from, it was at least a little different, I'm sure. A vocoder, or purposely lowered or raised, or behind a mask, or  _something_. But I definitely recognize the sound of those faintly clipped syllables, and the confidence all but leaking from every word in the voice.

"Haven't decided," I answer honestly, bracing my free hand on the counter to take the weight off my leg. It did  _not_  appreciate my jerky run across the room. "Who's asking?"

"Well,  _Roy_ ," and now there's a hint of amusement that sends a slight chill dragging down my spine, "I saw you on the news. Three murdered at a casino," another chill (where do I know that  _voice_  from?), "they're blaming Red Archer but  _we_  both know that you and he aren't on speaking terms at the moment. Put a neat hole through your leg; you can see the limp in the footage they captured of you."

"Who the  _hell_  is this?" I demand, and it takes me a second to realize I'm actually shaking a little bit.

This is  _not_  casual information. People don't just  _know_  these things. Sure, 'secret' identities are guidelines more than rules, and there's definitely an honor system that keeps most of us safe, but they're still  _secret_  for a reason. You  _can't_  just look at someone and know who they are.

"Does it matter?"

"To me? Yeah, just a  _little_."

There's a soft sound of amusement from the other side of the line, and it clicks into place. I  _know_  where I've heard that voice before, I know that  _sound_. I've heard that little amused noise — not a laugh, but close enough considering the owner — more times than I can even count.

"Owlman," I breathe, straightening up and taking a second to just quell the miniature panic attack that I'm having.

This is  _not_  good. I mean, Owlman calling me? Sure, not too surprising that he knows where I am, or that he could get a number like this or track me down. But he's  _calling_  me. This is very, very bad. Owlman actually  _likes_  Oliver — as much as he 'likes' anyone — and uses him a fair amount for a lot of smaller errands, favors, and trades. If I'm not involved with Oliver anymore, I'm fair game. Oh,  _shit_ , I hadn't even thought about that.

"Now that's been established, let's make something clear shall we, Roy?" Using my first name. Deliberately telling me he knows who I am, knows where I am. Oh I'm so  _doomed_. "You can calm down, I have no intention of killing you just yet."

Oh, that's— Yeah, that's lovely. Not  _yet_.

"What do you want?" I manage, staring blankly down at the kitchen counter.

"Your actions brought some fairly bad press down on Oliver," Owlman comments, and it hits me why he sounds so different, "I don't appreciate that very much." His voice is smooth, and it's fairly deep but it's not the rough, rumbling  _growl_  that he usually talks with. I'd bet this is him out of the mask, as whoever the hell he is when he's not being the scariest fucker on the whole planet, and running most — of at least America's — crime through the other Crime Syndicate members. If I was  _suicidal_ , I might be able to do something with that.

"Sorry?" I try, and almost burst into hysterical laughter when I realize that I'm trying to  _apologize_ to  _Owlman_. The guy who beat  _his own sidekick_ , who stands up there with the rest of the legends as a  _human_ , as one regular guy among people who can burn holes through people with a look or literally move  _mountains_. I just said  _sorry_ like I expected it to do a damn thing.

I sink to the ground, huddling against the counter like it's going to magically protect me. Oh I'm so  _fucked_.

What the hell do I do to calm down a pissed off Owlman? Is that a  _thing_ , can you even do that? Or are you just screwed from the get go? Will he take me apart piece by piece, or all at once? Am I already dead?

No, he said that he didn't have 'any intention to kill me' yet. So I've got a chance. Something I can do, or not do, to get me out of this. But what? And what the hell am I going to have to sacrifice for it? I've watched Owlman work, a  _lot_ ; people don't just get off scot free when they offend him. And I  _did_. God I'm so screwed!

"Words aren't sufficient," the clipped, slightly sneering voice says, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "Unfortunately, while the public may be in the dark so far, the rest of us are aware that you acted on your own, and this is becoming an incident. News stations may not have the correct focus on what is important, but they have clung to this one and will not be easily dissuaded."

There's a silence, and I fill it by echoing myself. "What do you want?" It's a little more desperate this time, pleading in a way I'd be ashamed of if I were talking to  _anyone_  else. As it is, I will do a  _lot_  of degrading things to stay alive.

I can almost hear him smile.

"I'm going to make an example of you, Roy," he says. "As a message to any others that might be considering…  _acting out_. You're going to run, you're going to hide, and I'm going to let you stay hidden so long as you  _never_  breathe another word of rebellion as Arsenal. Am I understood?"

"Yes?" I can't help the question in my voice. Running, hiding, yeah that's great, but what does he  _want_? What's the incentive, what's the message to everyone else?

"Clearly." He gives a tiny, bitten back sigh that makes me cringe. Oh,  _please_  say I didn't piss him off. "The rest of our community is considering your defiance of Oliver as a rallying point, which is something I will  _not_  allow. I'm simply going to remove you as their symbol." There's a brief pause, a background noise that sounds like a combination of the creak of leather and the faint clank of metal. "You picked up a packet of heroin from the second of your three targets, as well as the tools to inject it. You're going to use it."

" _What?_ " I ask, incredulously. My eyes open again, even though I'm not actually seeing anything. "You want me to  _what?_ "

"Lose face," he explains briefly, with a faint hint of threat to his voice. "You're going to become an addict, Roy, and I'm going to run you out of your absentee lover's apartment, so no one will  _ever_  consider betraying us so blatantly again. You can either take that heroin you picked up willingly — and don't pretend you hadn't already considered it, boy — or I will retrieve you and do so forcibly, and much more painfully. I doubt the world will believe you if you tell them that I captured you to make you an addict before releasing you again. Our kind don't believe in the 'best' in people, do we, Roy?"

"I-" I can't think. I,  _god_. An  _addict?_  No, I was always careful, and  _one_  second of thinking about it, that  _one_  moment of weakness where I put it in my coat, doesn't mean I  _ever_  would have actually taken it. I know  _better_  than that, and I'm far enough in the pit already that I could never afford doing something so  _dumb_. It would make me vulnerable, make me weak, and I can't let myself appear that way right now. Let alone  _actually_  be that way.

God, and what will  _Jade_  think when she hears? Will she think I actually did it, that I  _chose_  to fall that low? She thinks better of me than that, doesn't she? I… I don't know.

"There's no choice, is there?" I ask in return, letting my head fall against the cabinets beneath the kitchen counter as I fight back the burn of tears in the corners of my eyes.

"No," is the flat response. "You will make  _yourself_  a warning, or I will do it for you. I don't care if you stay in Star City, but no more adventures in the news, understand? You have a week to leave the apartment before I destroy it, and I expect you to already be well on the way to being a true addict before you leave. I  _will_  know, don't think you can fake it to me, Roy."

"Why not just kill me?" I ask sluggishly, hitting that part of an emotionally taxing conversation where you just shut down.

"Death is final, this is a torture. Why would I end things cleanly when I can force you to destroy your own reputation?"

The line clicks, dead, and I hold the phone to my ear for several seconds before letting it fall from my numb fingers. No,  _no_.

One moment of weakness, that's all it was.

I'm not an addict. I've never gotten addicted to a thing in my life —  _except Lian, and Jade_  — and I was never going to. I was going to pay my contacts, get the hell out of Star City, and start over somewhere. Hide, pray that Jade would come back, pray she'd bring Lian with her.

Now what? Jade would  _never_  bring Lian around me while I was intoxicated or influenced by  _anything_ , and I wouldn't blame her for it. I'll know this isn't my choice, and Owlman will know, but the rest of the world? If I try telling anyone else chances are good I'll get laughed out of the room.

Not because it's hard to imagine that Owlman would do that — we all know he'd do almost anything to get his way — but because I should have known better than to get myself in a situation like this to begin with. No Crime Syndicate lackey would ever publicly say anything but 'you got what you deserved.' I don't have any kind of options. Heroes might believe me, but they're not going to help me. Oh  _hell_  no, not after the shit I've done to some of them, or even just after the shit they know I've done to others.

I don't regret any of it, not the slightest bit. If I was going to regret anything, I'd have to regret Jade, and I'd have to regret having Lian, and I will  _not_ do that. They both deserve better than me, but I can't help never wanting Jade to get it.

Yeah, I'm selfish, and I'm cocky, and I'm not a 'good' person by hero standards, but who cares? I was satisfied, I was… I was happy. I had a beautifully aggressive woman, and a daughter, and a job that I was  _damn_ good at. And I—

I have to throw it all away, forever.

I'm not an idiot — there are a lot of tests and a lot of people that would tell you that technically, I'm actually a genius — and I didn't need Owlman to  _say_ it to hear the rest of the threat in his call. There's me, sure, and he can do all kinds of nasty things to me that I probably can't even imagine, but I'm not alone. If I don't cooperate, I've got absolutely no doubt that he'll go after Jade, and after Lian.

I can't let that happen.

I'd never put either of them in danger, not like that.

I'll… I'll do it. I'll do  _anything_ to protect them and if that means sacrificing myself then… Then so be it.


	13. Aiming True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, welcome back again! So, this is the last chapter (at least for now) in a row from Roy's PoV. Enjoy!

My shoulders tremble, and I curl a little farther into the thick comforter over me. I burn, and I'm freezing, and it's only through practice that I'm managing not to throw the blanket off and on every minute. I  _hurt_ , so badly. Like every part of me is trying separately to kill itself, and maybe succeeding.

The building is secure enough, and I'm not really worried anyone's going to find me — not this time, not  _this time_  — but there's only so much I can do about that anyway. If anyone finds me, if anyone comes after me in here, I might be alright. I might survive.

I can probably lift my bow, and I can probably put an arrow through them before they're close enough to hurt me. I keep those close, all the time. It's the only thing I have to my name now, and even high or in the bouts of withdrawal I can still aim and shoot a bow. Not with the accuracy I could, it's  _hard_ when your arms are shaking that badly, but I can put an arrow in an intruder. Unless it's Oliver, but I haven't seen him at all these last couple months. Not since— Since  _fucking_  Owlman gave me his threats.

I give a shudder, my stomach cramping, and arch under the blanket. My back digs against the edge of a wall, the carpet beneath me rough and scratchy on the bare skin of my arms, and I stifle a moan of pain by biting down on my tongue hard enough to taste blood. Or maybe that's just my mouth tasting like blood. It's hard to tell these days.

My breath is shallow, and I reach sideways for the jug of water beside me. I cringe at the drag of the carpet against my hyper sensitive skin, and at the change of temperature outside the warmth of the blanket. How the  _hell_  did I get this far into this shit? I can barely tell the difference anymore between what I  _have_  to do, to protect… protect people —  _Lian_  — and the things that I do because I want to, because I can't think of another way to live. The burning itch in my veins, the yawning pit of my stomach, and the  _pain_  that's my life, those are things I  _have_  to take, right? Things I  _have_  to suffer through because if I don't... If I don't...

My fingers graze the jug, and I drag it closer to me. It feels amazingly cool under my fingers, and I bury my head against the side of it for a few seconds just for the feeling; the tiny, temporary relief. A choked sound leaves my throat, and I can't help the desperate, hysterical laugh that leaves me.

I thought… I thought I could control it.

I thought that if I just did what Owlman wanted, I could be careful enough to ruin my reputation, like he wanted, without actually  _ruining_  myself. I thought I could measure the drugs, be  _so_  careful to only take enough to put up an appearance, and keep myself looking bad for anyone watching.  _Now_  look at me.

I'm shivering in a for-sale house, huddled against a wall in the dark while I sweat out my life and my sanity into a comforter I stole off some person's line of laundry. Some fucking person I am. Jade would… She'd…  _Fuck_  her.

My lips curl in a tiny snarl.

She took Lian from me, took my daughter just when I needed her the most, and left me to Star City, Owlman, and the fucking  _hell_  that is my life.

I did this to  _protect_  her! I took an arrow through my thigh, lost my whole  _life_  because I wanted to keep her safe, and she turned around and left me.  _Screw_  her, she can go die— No, I can't wish her  _anything_  but happiness. One of us should be okay, right?

God I'm stupid, and I must be a masochist, but I  _love_  her. I  _still_  love her.

The memories of her, and of Lian, are the only things that get me through some days. The curve of her jaw and the smoothness of her back, the fall of her hair and the artful grace that turned her every move into a dance. Worth watching. All day, every day. And Lian's pale skin — my skin, not her mother's — green eyes, and black hair. She'll be gorgeous, when she's older, and precious while she's a child.

I hope Jade never tells her who I am. She doesn't need to know that the warning of the criminal world, the pathetic junkie in the corner, is her father. She… God, she doesn't need to know that.

I breathe shallowly, twitching and jerking in muscle spasms I can't control, the  _need_  singing inside my mind. I didn't, I didn't think it was like this. I should have, I've seen enough addicts, but I thought it would be easier to deny. I thought I could  _live_  through it, but I can't. I  _can't_. I always reach a point where I find myself reaching for the needles, and the drugs, and tearing myself apart again for the relief of the hazy bliss.

If I wasn't such a  _coward_  I'd just end things. Overdosing wouldn't be hard, and it's a bad death but it's something. It would be  _some_ way out of this, but I can't do  _that_ either. I can lie to myself all I want and tell myself that it's for  _them_ , that I don't know what Owlman would do to Jade and Lian if I killed myself, but I  _know_ the truth of it is that death still terrifies me, and even this torture is better than oblivion. So far.

I fade out inside the nice moment of bliss that is the jug of water, clutching it to myself like it's a lifeline, which it is. It's a nice, cool, beacon of everything that I could do to not be quite so fucked up. I could force myself through withdrawal, if I had more of a sense of what the hell I was doing. And if I thought I had  _any_  chance of actually making it.

I'm not delusional. I  _know_  that I don't have that much control. I've  _tried_ ; I tried the minute I knew that this had gotten out of hand and I didn't have it under control anymore. I tried, and I failed, and I ended up back in the stages of shivering, shaking,  _needing,_  and trying  _so hard_  not to.

I can't do it, and it's not like there's anyone lining up to help me. I've entertained those fantasies, not gonna lie. The ones where I wake up and Jade is there, slipping a hand over my forehead and telling me I'll be alright Telling me that she's there and she's damn well never leaving me again, and that my life is going to even back out under her watch.

Even if that were true, Owlman wouldn't let that happen, would he? It's not that simple, it  _can't_  be that easy, and there can never be a chance that 'love' can change things for anyone like me.  _Love_ doesn't save warnings.

I've also thought about Oliver coming back. Tracking me down, standing over me and I'm  _sure_  he's going to kill me, but he sets his bow down instead and drags me into a hug. I'm part of the family again, I'm alright, and he puts me through the best rehab facilities in the country, in the  _world_. He takes care of me.

I'm a fucking coward.

Every time I think those things I want them,  _so_  badly. I want to know that maybe, just maybe, there's some future down the road for me. It's a pretty lie to a destroyed man.

My world slips in and out of blackness, as I twitch and try not to let the clenching hollowness of my stomach drive me across the room to my stores, to my collection. Desperation keeps me locked onto the jug, onto the floor and beneath the comforter. No more this time, no more.

I come back to myself eventually, slipping back out the half-conscious, nightmare laced hell that's my only sleep these days. I'm a bit better, in one of the reprieves that I'm lucky to ever get, but I'm also sweating to death under the comforter.

I shove it off the top half of myself, propping myself up on trembling limbs and against the wall. My vision swims, and I reel for a second before stabilizing. I stare down at the water for a moment before dragging the cap off — it takes me way longer than it should to twist it, to get the cap away — before taking in a strained breath and lifting it. It's nearly too heavy, with the limp noodles that my arms usually are these days, but I manage to get it high enough to take a drink out of it.

The water's lukewarm, but I couldn't give a damn. It's something, anything, and any kind of solid food isn't going to stay down right now. Water will keep me alive until... until I succumb to the  _need_ and take another shot.

Who am I trying to  _kid_?

Movement catches the corner of my eye, and I'm at least still good enough, still  _aware_  enough, that I left the water drop and reach for my bow and the quiver beside it. The arrow goes easily to the string, as I turn and get a little higher up the wall to aim, and I find two figures in what I'm pretty sure is mostly black clothing standing against the wall, across the bare room from me. They're almost totally invisible inside the shadows, hoods pulled up around their heads to hide their faces, but their skin stands out in the darkness.

I try and draw the bow, but in some mix of luck and absolute patheticness, I can't even pull it far enough back to get it to look like I was trying. So they don't find out that I can't, but I  _know_ I can't, and it terrifies me.

That's a…  _fuck_ , that's a first. I've always been able to draw my bow,  _always_. Even weak, or injured, or shaking from the aching need, I've  _always_  been able to get enough strength in me to pull the string back far enough to shoot. But now I, I can't.  _God_.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand, my voice weak, cracking, rough with disuse. Wow, I sound  _awful_. I haven't gotten crazy enough to talk to myself, so I haven't had the opportunity to notice.

They must be part of the masked community.  _Must_ be. Maybe I'm a wreck right now, but I have years and  _years_ of experience, people can't just sneak up on me like this. Not normal people. These ones must be trained, even though they're not in costumes, and I have no idea which side of the coin they fall on. Or, if they're neutral. Ninjas for hire. I bite back a hysterical giggle.

The taller one — by maybe like, three or four inches? — snorts, turning his head and kicking one foot out from where he's leaning against the wall, hands shoved inside the pockets of the hoodie.

"This guy, Dick?  _Really?_ " He's got anger, disgust, and incredulousness all mixed into a neat little package in his voice. I don't recognize the voice, but that's not saying much. There are a lot of people I'm not real familiar with. The other one shifts, head moving sideways in the almost complete darkness — I can see shadows of lighter or darker outlines, and spots of pale skin, but they blend in scarily well — to look at the other.

"Jason, we talked about this. Give it a chance." That voice is quieter, a little rough around the edges like he's a smoker.

Jason? Okay, that throws an interesting spin on things. Usually masks go by something other than their real name, unless their real name is unique and intimidating on its own and 'Jason' really, really isn't. That makes me think professionals. Professional  _killers_ , specifically, which is a whole new game. But their words don't match up with that, and who the hell would bother killing me now?

The taller one pushes off the wall and walks toward the other, moving with an edgy, predatory grace that makes me blink a couple times to make sure I'm not seeing things. He... He moves like Jade. What the  _hell_? Are they with the League of Shadows? Did  _Jade_ send them? Did she send them to  _kill_ me? She wouldn't do that, would she?

"That was before we  _got_  here," the taller one snaps. "He's a  _mess_." Okay, it's accurate, but it  _hurts_. This is  _not my choice_ , damnit, and it stings every time someone  _judges_ me because of it. If I'd had a  _choice_ I would have been on a different continent and deep in hiding by now. I was more responsible than apparently  _everyone_ gave me credit for; I  _know_ how to deal with shit going wrong, and I know how to do it without being an  _idiot_.

"I'm also  _right here_ ," I point out, in as mean a voice as I can muster right now. It's... yeah, it's pathetic. Alright, whatever. I'd like to see anyone else do better when they're as screwed up and in withdrawal as I am.

Jason totally ignores me. "We can do better than  _this,_  Dick. Come  _on_."

"I'm  _right_  here," I repeat, pushing a little straighter against the wall and managing to sound just a  _little_  more threatening. Not, you know, a lot, and it doesn't make me feel any less pathetic, but it's a bit better. "You could try talking to me, jackass."

Jason rounds on me, and I can see his mouth — one of the only things that's not hidden under shadows and the arc of his hood — curve into a sneering snarl. "Maybe if you were worth a damn to me,  _Arsenal_." Oh, that's not good. That means they know at least something about who I am, and probably means that apart from being stealthy bastards, they also know something about what I'm usually capable of, and don't consider me a threat. "How about you pull that string back?" The tall ninja sneers, stepping toward me threateningly and with a mocking,  _challenging_  note to his voice.

Fuck.

I try, I really do. There's a large part of me that really wants to prove I'm still  _something,_  and that I can still be dangerous. I get it back about three inches before my arm twitches, shudders, and gives up on me, and the effort makes it all but useless. It's hard to even keep it up on the string.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he turns sharply, towards the mostly quiet one. " _Look_ , Dick. He's totally useless to us."

I let the bow lower, now that everyone knows I couldn't shoot it even if I had to, and curl my fingers around the shaft of the arrow instead. Alright, Jason moves like a League of Shadows member, which means that I'm probably all but  _fucked_  if they come after me and I can't draw my bow. I'm a pretty good hand to hand combatant, but not the level of Jade's regular minions, I rely on too many sharp things. It's a failing. Even if I  _was_  good enough to challenge one of them, why would it even matter? I can't draw a bowstring, so I  _definitely_  can't challenge anyone in a straight fight right now anyway.

But I've got an arrow, and at least those are sharp pointy weapons that are equally good at stabbing. I've got my gun too, but that's about ten feet to my right, which is probably too far for me to get without getting my ass handed to me by them. Ninjas and bullets are generally not a great combination anyway. Kind of the whole point of ninjas; not dying to obvious weapons.

The quiet one — Dick, really? I hope to god his name is actually Richard, and that's not just a permanent insult — shifts, but doesn't immediately speak. I'm  _pretty_  sure he looks from Jason to me, but with the hood drawn up I can't tell in the slightest. Fuck, I wish I could see their faces. I worry when people hide their faces, usually it means they don't want to be found.

"Roy," maybe-a-Dick starts, moving forward and  _holy shit_.

I  _know_  the way he moves. The fucking  _godlike_  gracefulness, the smooth slip of someone trained so  _perfectly_  to silence that it's second nature. I  _know_  it. But that's... that's impossible. The only person I've ever seen move like that has been dead for almost— Christ, almost five and a half years. That can't be right, can it? I'm just seeing things, I'm finally  _hallucinating_. That's  _gotta_  be it.

He stops in front of me, sinking down to crouch in that particular way that I remember. One arm bracing between his legs, touching the ground but not pressing, feeling it without looking through pure instinct. A stance built for the edge of rooftops, the easy shift of weight in any direction or the build up for the strength needed to leap off a building.

" _Talon?_ " I ask, my voice husky with shock, and disbelief.

I still can't see the upper portion of his face, but I see his mouth — pale skin; Talon always had  _really_ pale skin, like he never saw the sun — flick upwards at one corner in a tiny flinch of muscle that, once upon a time, I dubbed the 'you're not an idiot after all' smile.

_Talon_.

I laugh, leaning against the wall and curling in on myself. That's just  _great_ , I've finally gone totally fucking nuts. I'm hallucinating old almost-friends to keep myself sane, how screwed is that? Look Oliver, look, I see dead people! Hah!

My chest aches, and I gasp in air between the rough laughter that's equal parts humor — what better laugh can there be than watching yourself go  _nuts?_  — and painful desperation. I'm totally nuts, I'm totally fucked, I guess I just needed that last little nudge to kick my brain into full on insanity. Just one last little thing for my mind to decide that  _hey_ , what better time could there be to hallucinate?!

"Great," Jason says from across the room, "and he's crazy too. Let's just go, Dick. He's seriously past any help we could give him, and there's no way he's going to take our offer anyway. Not this fucked up." The tall ninja moves closer, and I choke back the laughter as my fingers clench tight around the arrow and I jerk it up to raise threateningly.

Immediately it's snatched from my hand by a flash of pale skin on the edge of my vision, and I jerk to watch my Talon spin it between his fingers with practiced ease. And my hallucinations are  _interacting_  with me. Oh this is a whole new level of messed up.

"We can ask," he says, his head tilting for a second towards whoever the hell  _Jason_  is. I don't remember anyone called Jason, I don't think. I'm sure I know Jasons, I know somebody of just about every name and Jason is a common one, but I would have remembered someone with an abrasive personality like this. Totally.

My Talon reaches up with his free hand, tugging back the hood and letting it fall against his shoulders. The face that meets my eyes is… it's not helping my total belief that this is all a hallucination. I blink. Then I blink again.

The person looking at me has fairly long — like, ear length, which I guess isn't long but, whatever — black hair, with very faint curls, and the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen.

I know they are, because I've seen them before. A lot.

_Holy fuck this is Richard Grayson._

Also dead, also very much an almost-friend of mine. The Wayne family is the richest family in Gotham, and being the richest family in Star City naturally Oliver and I crossed paths with Bruce and his adopted kid Richard a lot. Until Richard died; a bombing in some country that I'd never heard of before, that for  _some_  reason Bruce and he were in. Vacationing, or maybe business; I honestly don't know. Point being, he  _died_  a messy  _death_. It was kind of overshadowed by the Jokester fucking up and then killing Talon, like a week beforehand, but—

No way. No  _fucking_  way.

Richard Grayson, the slightly socially awkward kid of Bruce Wayne — a seriously ruthless businessman who owns pretty much all of Gotham — and Talon, the sidekick for Owlman — a fucking terrifying criminal lord — dying in the same week? Both to bombs, both in ways that hide nearly all proof a body even existed in the first place?

No  _way_.

Richard Grayson is... is Talon? That  _can't_  be right, can it? That would make Owlman Bruce Wayne, and while I'm sure he's scary in his own way — I know it, actually, I've heard Oliver tell stories of business deals with him — he's not  _Owlman_  scary. I've met Bruce a bunch of times, hung out with him and had a couple drinks, even. He's not...

Oh Jesus he  _is_. That's why I recognised the voice Owlman used on the phone. Not because I put it together, but because I knew them both separately. I've heard both of them talk a large amount, heard them say a lot of stuff that didn't sound the same, but… The little sound of amusement is just something that  _both_  versions of the scary bastard do. It's a  _tell_ , holy  _fuck_ Owlman has a  _tell_.

No  _wonder_  Owlman can afford all his tools, gadgets, vehicles, and  _rule_  the rest of the Crime Syndicate with them. He's the richest guy in Gotham and maybe America; he's even richer than  _Oliver_ , and that's saying something. There's no way Oliver knows, right? No, he couldn't. If he knew, I would have known, and obviously I didn't. Oliver wouldn't have kept me in the dark about something like this, not while we were still a family. What he knew, I knew.

I probably shouldn't be as surprised as I am. I mean, Oliver is a playboy and business man by day and a crime lord at night, why should I be surprised that Bruce is the same thing? That  _Owlman_  is  _Bruce_.

I'm gonna need some time to work my head around that one.

"We've got a deal to make with you," my ninja Talon-Richard says with a tiny smirk. "I think you'll like it."

"I... what?" Not firing on all cylinders. Brain checked out, gone to fish, will return when finished computing.

"This is fucking pointless," the other one snarls, and I put the pieces together kind of painfully slowly.

Owlman had a second Talon, didn't he? He had some kid — teenager, not actually a kid — that he was training as Talon. I saw him once or twice in group fights, but he was pretty much confined to Gotham other than that. I never tried to speak to him; I never wanted to know who the hell this kid was that had taken up  _my_  Talon's mantle. He went silent though. Maybe like a year back, a little more? He vanished and there were theories whispered when we were pretty sure no one was paying attention, but no one said anything out loud.

We thought maybe the Jokester had gotten the second one too, just not as publicly, or that Owlman himself had killed the kid for not being good enough. Owlman never said anything, he just let us talk without giving any kind of statement one way or another. I guess… is it possible?

I can't see his face, and I wish I could because I do happen to know that the second Talon kid had black hair too, and I'd guess — if Owlman is seriously that predictable which would probably make me burst into another round of hysterical laughter — he probably had blue eyes too. I could tell if he were a little closer, or a little less hidden. But with my Talon being here, that means it's pretty damn likely that the other guy, Jason, is the second Talon, doesn't it? Seriously, what the hell are my hallucinations even  _doing?_

The missing sidekick. Which is a seriously weird concept.

One Talon who's supposed to be dead, one who vanished, and  _both_  of them in not-even-my home. There must be a reason for that, right? One I really don't...

Okay, this is way above my pay grade and my ability to comprehend things right now. Will return later.

My Talon-Grayson sighs — a small exhale of breath that's just a little louder than normal — and looks up at Jason. "We're giving him the chance, Jason," he say in a tone that brooks  _no_  argument, and the other one scowls and steps just a little closer.

" _Fine_ ," he spits, " but there's no way I'm listening to him, or letting him ruin this by getting us tracked."

I— What's he talking about? Are there plans, am I needed, what is even  _going on in my hallucination of a life?_

"Go ahead," my Talon says, leaning back to smoothly straighten back up with a grace I could only ever  _envy_.

Jason makes a viciously pleased sound, and I turn towards him in just enough time to see fast movement, and then have pain explode on the side of my skull. I hit the ground, and my vision goes very, very black.

* * *

I wake shaking, and shuddering, and sweating, and crawl my way to awareness like I'm trying to drag myself through a vertical tunnel. Or —  _hey, there's_  an image — like I'm trying to crawl my way across a concrete floor while I bleed out from an arrow in my thigh. Now why does  _that_  sound familiar?

I twitch, prying my eyes open and staring uncomprehendingly at a field of faintly off-white  _something_. I move a bit, then wince as nausea rolls through my stomach and my vision swims and spots black. Oh, oh that's unpleasant. What the  _hell?_  I shift and try to move, and my wrists pull tight against something.

It takes me an agonizingly long time to look down at them, where I find them wrapped in what looks like… handcuffs? Handcuffs with… soft inner lining? What the  _fuck?_ I raise my gaze, having to pause every second or so to fix the swimming world, and manage to look around what looks like a normal bedroom, except for that whole 'I'm totally handcuffed to the bed' thing. That's…

Okay, not new. I have definitely woken up handcuffed to a bed before, that's a thing, but I don't think I've ever had that happen and been  _alone_ when I woke up. That part of it is new.

My arm jerks in sudden pain, my shoulder curling up, and there's a sharp clank of metal that makes me cringe in on myself. It's  _loud_ , cuts into my head like a knife, and the cringe starts a fresh wave of shivers. Feelings I'm really,  _really_ familiar with now, this is the part where it queues up to get  _really_ bad. As withdrawal stages go, this is the one I hate the most. It's not terrible, it's not the same agonizing, craving  _need_ that takes over in one more step, where I can't even think straight through the agony of my body purging the leftover drugs — I've never gotten past that stage — but it's the stage where I  _know_ it's going to be worse soon. I know I'm about to lose my will, again, and all I can do is wait for it to happen. As awful things go, waiting for suffering is usually worse than actually enduring the thing itself.

Hang on, let me take stock of this. So I'm maybe like, two to four hours — time is a questionable thing, when I'm this fucked up — from the  _pain_  and  _misery_ that's about to hit me. I'm handcuffed to a bed with restraints that look professional, but lined so I don't hurt myself too badly wrenching at them. Lastly, I'm in some random place, with two people I might have hallucinated?

Oh, that's bad. That's rather  _amazingly_ bad, even for the dive bombing fall my life has taken recently.

I focus on trying to breathe, trying to regulate my body in some way to not have to feel the itch that's just starting to build again, or have to deal with the shudders that are going to turn into full on jerks and spasms later.

I crack my mouth open to call, to see if  _anyone_ is around, but the words just hang on my tongue like lead. All that manages to leave my throat is a thick, shaking, groan.

I… the other one, Jay… Jason? He knocked me out, didn't he? I think I might remember something like that. Most of my life is pretty fuzzy right now. Kicked me in the side of the head, maybe? If that's true, it should probably worry me that my head doesn't really hurt. It feels thick, and I've got the hangover headache from hell, but it doesn't ache on one side like blows to the head usually do. Then again, I've woken up after highs with giant bruises, no memory of how I got them, and barely any pain.

I let my eyes drift shut for a second, and when I open them again — I'm not totally sure it was just a second, I think I might have actually just passed out for a bit — there's someone leaning over me. I blink, letting out a second groan through my teeth that I think might have been some attempt at words.

The blue-eyed, black-haired man looks down at me, and it takes me a bit to put together his face and realize it's not the Talon-that-is-Grayson. The lines of his face are a little sharper, his eyes a greener blue, and he's got an expression that looks a lot like a scowl on his face. My Talon would  _never_ make a face that open.

"You here?" he demands, the words sort of coming through. I think that's what he said, I'm pretty sure. No, fuck it, I don't know. I'll just answer what I think I heard and go from there.

"Yeessss?" I drag out of my voice, and I  _think_  it's English. I think it's more than just a string of syllables that could be words in some alien tongue for all I'm really able to focus right now.

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes, and flicks his head up at the other side of the bed. Slowly, painfully, I manage to get my gaze over to that side. Hey,  _my_  Talon! He's still, but I think he gives me another of his almost-a-smile flinches of muscle.

"Look, this is going to be nasty as shit," the maybe-Talon above me says blatantly, and I try my best to focus back on him. It only sort of works. "You're fucked, and Dick wants to give you a chance so I guess we're making sure you're aware before you turn us down for being  _fucking_ insane, or something."

The words come in slow, but I pretty much understand them. Maybe I don't put all the words together in the right order, or in sentences that are complete enough for me to know what he's talking about, but I'm definitely hearing…  _things_.

"So buckle in, asshole, you're about to get the shit beaten out of you. Withdrawal is a bitch, isn't it? Maybe you should make better choices."

That's not  _right_ , I manage to think groggily. "I,  _didn't_ ," the words die, my brain not managing to find a way to put my thoughts in English that people might understand. Luckily it comes in time with a violent shudder that makes me roll my head back despite the nausea, hands clenching.

"We'll make sure you live," the maybe-Talon promises, even though he sounds seriously grudging about it.

I think I manage a nod, but my vision is so screwed I honestly don't know. Everything hurts, and  _aches_ , and I feel stuffed full of cotton balls filled with fucking  _needles_ , and all I want is the relief I know I could give myself. The sting of a needle in the joint of my elbow, the  _smell_  of the drug cooking lingering in my nose and sticking to the inside of my mouth like an appetizer.

Just  _one_  more time.

I want the rush of numbness to swim through me, I want the tingling feeling across my skin and the lightheaded high I get from a good dose, to let me forget this  _hell_  on Earth. To let me live just a little longer without having to think about... about  _anything_. I don't want to have to exist in the grimy hellhole the world  _really_ is, under it's pretty coating. I just, I just want…

My world fades out, and I sink back under the chaos of my own consciousness.

* * *

The next I-have-no-fucking- _idea-_ how-long is  _hell_. Hell worse than anything I have ever been through, and I've been in more fights and healed from more injuries than most people have even  _seen_. I find out that everything I thought I knew about withdrawal is  _wrong_. It gets so much worse, and  _stays_ — I think, because  _god_ my sense of time is  _fucked_ — worse so much longer than I thought it could.

I vividly remember straining at the handcuffs, screaming and cursing at the two  _demons_ over me as everything I thought I knew of me is torn to bits and eaten — still alive and  _shrieking_ — by the raging  _need._

The whole thing is  _that_.

Vivid memories of pain and burning  _need_ , ripping me apart and destroying me, before everything is just gone. Hours, minutes, days? Impossible to know, impossible to tell. I don't remember, I'm not sure I want to know.

Eventually, I wake up to something that isn't screaming, driving  _need_. I still hurt, every shift of  _anything_ still makes me tremble in pain and the utter misery that takes me over when it's not  _rage_ , but I'm a little more conscious. After that, they take the handcuffs off and I get pretty much carried off and dumped into the cool tile of a shower. The hot — burning, nearly  _scalding_ — water helps, a bit. Things go a little easier after that, and the restraints stay off. They still watch me, ease me through the shudders and the sweat and the general awfulness that is my body trying to  _kill_ itself, but at least I can do it curled into a tight little ball where I feel a little less exposed.

So the day that I come out of not-really-sleep unconsciousness and I'm  _alone_ , it's weird.

I lift myself up — eventually — on arms that don't want to hold my weight, dragging the heavy blanket that's been my only comfort these days around my shoulders and huddling into it. I take another look around the room to make sure I'm alone, because my two ex-Talon captor, savior,  _things_ , are totally silent and if I don't make  _sure_ , I could miss one of them. I  _am_ alone.

I stare around the room, and at the two closed doors. One to what I assume is the rest of wherever the fuck I am, and the other the bathroom. There's a faint sound coming from behind the bathroom door. Irregular, but the same sound each time. I don't have the energy to pinpoint what it is right now, but it's definitely not normal bathroom noises.

I should probably not— Yeah, I'm going to check.

I drag myself out of the bed, clutching the thick blanket around me and  _trying_ not to feel the sickening swirl of my stomach. I've been through hell, this is  _nothing_. I've had worse hangovers, right? Right.

It's maybe ten feet (I swear the floor is  _rolling_ ), but it feels like it takes me forever to get across the concrete floor — which is fucking  _cold_ , by the way — to the doorway. I am immeasurably,  _ridiculously_ , pleased that it's not actually closed, and I can just push it open. I don't know if I could have handled a doorknob right now. The door swings open, and one head snaps up to look at me.

The little Talon, J-something, glares at me. The first one — and holy shit that  _is_ Richard Grayson, I was totally  _not_ hallucinating — is on his knees, leaning against a wall. He looks… Well, he looks like shit. He's pale, kinda clammy looking, with strands of sweat-soaked black hair clinging to his forehead and a dark blue towel held loosely in his left hand. There are dark circles under his closed eyes, and his mouth is just slightly open, as if he can't breathe through his nose. So, honestly, he probably looks about as fucked up as I do. I know what I  _didn't_ do to deserve this — fucking  _Owlman_  — but what the hell did Talon do? The first Talon. Oh, Christ, that's gonna get confusing.

The little one gets up, defensively between me and Talon, and  _oh_ , he's not little. He's taller than me — and I'm not  _short_  — and he's muscled about as well as I am, considering the size of his bare arms. Okay, I'm definitely not standing up straight; that makes me feel a little bit better. He's not a giant, I'm just… kinda hunched. He's young though, I can see that. Definitely a few years younger than my Talon.

"What are you doing up?" he demands, in an angry snarl, shifting to be just a  _little_ more in between me and the should-be-dead celebrity on the floor.

"Got practice with hangovers," I deflect, dragging a grin onto my face. From the way the — fuck it — little Talon looks at me, it's probably a pretty sick looking thing. Whatever, I don't care right now. I lean to the side, around him, which is a  _bad idea_. I tilt, impacting with the other side of the doorway, and then do my  _very_ best to pretend like it was intentional and I didn't just fall over. My Talon's eyes are open, looking up at me, and I offer him the same dragged-from-the-depths-of-my-soul grin. "You look like shit," I inform him.

His right eyebrow flicks upwards for a second, eyes closing again, which in Talon-speak translates out to a normal person's 'no, really?' face.

"Yeah, I know, dumb thing to say. Blame the chemical imbalance." J-something raises an eyebrow in a  _real_ person expression, glancing down at my Talon. Jeez, what did Owlman  _not_ do to this one? He's so… normal. Well, okay,  _no_. But he makes real faces and he's got eyes that are actually  _alive_. It's really fucking weird. The human Talon probably shouldn't weird me out more than my robot one, but I guess there's some kind of thing about knowing and, comfort? My mind  _so_ isn't working well enough to find the right words right now.

"He spent a lot of time in Star City," I explain to the younger one, "so I read Talon-face. Didn't think I'd need  _that_ again. By the way," I raise one hand, pointing down at my Talon, "aren't you dead?"

Okay,  _Talon_ , so it's not like I could ever track him, but man, that video was… I was  _really_ sure that the clown (Jokester, that's right) had killed him. It was a  _hard_  couple months in Star City when that happened, and Owlman got some seriously nasty backlash from the Syndicate for allowing a hero to kill one of us. It made everybody's job more difficult for a while. I kept the hell out of it, especially since I seemed to be the only person that remembered Talon was a damn  _person_. Of course, Owlman never thought of Talon as a person to begin with, from what I remember. Man, that was a seriously fucked up relationship.

My Talon's eyes open, slowly, and one corner of his mouth pulls up in a tiny flinch of muscle. Probably the closest he gets to a real smile. I don't count those bullshit ones that he fakes. "Not yet," he answers, and I wince without even thinking about it.

His voice is a rasping mess, dragging out of his throat like the way I dragged my grin, and god it just sounds  _awful_. His brow draws down, and I see him swallow once before he gives a small jerk and a cough bursts from him. He bends, towel rising to his mouth, and is he,  _shaking?_ J-something immediately turns, crouching next to my Talon and reaching out to rest a hand between his shoulder blades. I wait a second for him to shake it off, or hit the little Talon, but he  _doesn't_.

Okay,  _clearly_ this man is  _not_ the same killer that I knew. My Talon would've broken the younger one's arm for touching him without warning  _and_ permission, even if he was bleeding out. So, clearly not dead, clearly not the same, and clearly pretty badly hurt. I have  _missed_ some shit.

"But soon?" I ask, watching my Talon cough into the towel. His body jerks with every burst, and his fingers are white-knuckled around the fabric held to his mouth. He looks like a normal person with a  _really_ bad cold, so he must pretty much be  _dying_. I saw my Talon take down eighteen gang members with a bullet still in his left arm; he just doesn't feel pain like a normal human does. I have wondered  _so_ many times — mostly when I was feeling like a pretty shitty sidekick for  _not_ being able to defy all normal human limits — if Owlman didn't secretly make some kind of android/clone thing, and Talon was just  _pretending_ to be human.

Stupid theories to make myself feel better, but it's hard being the backup to someone as ridiculously deadly as him.

J-something's free hand clenches into a fist, and his tightly worried look turns into a nasty glare that he aims at me. Yeah, try some more kid. I've had  _way_ worse glares aimed at me than one pissed off Talon.

…

Okay, nevermind. But he wouldn't kill one drug addict in the middle of withdrawal, right?

Oh  _fuck_ , alright. Uh…

"Get out," he hisses, and I hold up my hands in surrender, taking a step back. Or, trying to. My leg buckles and I sag against the doorframe, muscles refusing to take my weight.

I blink, hands lowering to brace and keep myself from sliding down to the floor. Oh, man, if I end up down there I am  _not_ getting up again. I've done this dance before, at some of Oliver's more wild parties, though usually I was still pretty drunk. That feeling like the floor is  _miles_ down there, and still moving, just a bit. This isn't so different from waking up the next morning still a little wasted, but not riding high (bad choice of word,  _not_ thinking about being high) on the excitement of the party. It's just, got a different twist on it.

At least I don't have to go out working; doing that while hungover sucked ass. Thus, why Oliver always dumped morning duties off on me the night after a party. That selfish bastard. Says the guy who tried to float off on a drug haze when his world dropped out from under him. I guess I don't have room to talk. Two emotionally fucked killing machines had to pull me out of my pity party, how screwed is that?

"Yeah, yeah," I say, in answer to the little Talon's continued glare. "When I can stand." His lip curls up a little further, but he turns back to my Talon. I consider keeping my mouth shut for about two seconds, and then spit out my words. "Seriously though, he's dying isn't he?" J-something stiffens, but he nods after a couple more seconds. "Yeah, figured." I shift on the doorframe, testing my weight on my legs and promptly leaning a little more heavily against the wall. "No stupid questions, I know you wouldn't just die without thinking through the options. Hey, I know where you can get some  _serious_ pain meds, if you want?"

"What's  _wrong_ with you?" the little Talon demands, and the verbal sucker punch probably isn't intentional, but  _damn_ , it  _hurts_.

I give up the battle, letting myself slide to the floor and forcing a laugh. It comes out harsher than I meant to let it be — Oliver would ground me for that kind of a slip, if he were here — but the little Talon doesn't even blink. Honestly, he's probably heard a lot worse from me than one messed up laugh; I don't remember all of the time I've been here.

"It depends who you ask," I answer, hiding the sting behind my grin.

The coughing calms down, and J-something promptly ignores me as my Talon lets the towel drop an inch or so, leaning heavily against the wall. His breathing is even, if shallow, but now that I know what to listen for I can hear the hitches in it. I can't even  _imagine_ the kind of pain he must be in, to let this much show. Even if my Talon is a totally different man, he's still an emotionally dead killer. You don't shake stuff like that off; control is hardwired into him.

He lets the towel drop a little further, when the coughing doesn't immediately start again, and—

" _Shit_ ," I let out in a quiet hiss, without thinking about it. There are hints of blood around his mouth, and the towel is spotted darker in places with what  _must_ be more of it. "That looks, bad." I wince as J-something gives me a glare that's even nastier than the ones he's been levelling throughout the whole conversation. My Talon gives a small nod that looks pretty seriously painful, eyes shut.

"What the hell happened?" I ask, and after a moment my Talon's eyes open, and his gaze flicks towards J-something. "So I should ask, you?" I continue, turning my eyes towards the little Talon. "It's... J..." I flounder, and his eyes narrow.

"Jason," he snaps, "you ass."

"Only an insult to the people that aren't self aware," I comment with another grin. "Jason, good to meet you. You're the second Talon, right?" He stiffens, my Talon gives his own little version of a wince, and I wish I could backpedal faster. "Oo, not a question to ask?"

"I'm  _not_  Talon anymore," he nearly snarls. "How'd you end up an  _addict_ , Roy?"

Okay, point taken. Still, at least I've got the best comeback answer in the world. " _Your_  former boss," I answer almost instantly. "I didn't  _choose_  to be an addict, thank you very much Jaybird. I'm a little  _better_  at life than that, usually."

He blinks at me, stunned, and then very slowly turns fully towards me. "What the  _hell_  did you just call me?" he demands.

"Jaybird!" I answer cheerfully. The moment where I'm sure he's going to strangle me is totally worth the satisfaction I get out of nicknaming him that. Oh yeah, keeping that unless he threatens me with actual death, and I'm  _pretty_  sure my Talon won't let him do that. Speaking of... "So what do I call  _you_  then?" I direct at  _my_  not-a-Talon.

Jason's teeth are audibly grinding together, and he looks about half a step away from murdering me. Is it kind of suicidal that I have absolutely no fear of that? Death? Meh, big deal.

"I mean, I think I remember him calling you Dick, and you're also totally Richard Grayson — which gave me all  _kinds_  of awesome information — but do you have a favorite? I'll call you whatever."

My not-a-Talon is back to that almost smirk, while Jason's hands slowly clench into fists and then ease back out to straight hands. Way more dangerous than fists, if you know how to use them.  _I_  happen to know that Talons know how to use them. He could totally kill me. Weird how I don't  _care_.

"'How about D? Dick seems to be a thing just between you two."

Jason actually gives a little twitch forward before coming to a jerky stop, like he really was going to strangle me before restraining himself. Hey, props to the kid on his restraint. Yes, I  _can_ call him kid. He's at least a year or two younger than Grayson, Dick, D, and I'm a few years older than the  _older_ ex-Talon. I reserve my rights.

"So, D, Jaybird, I also remember that you had some kind of deal to offer me, didn't you? Well, I'm not  _fine_  per say, but I'm good enough to be awake, making bad jokes, and nicknaming you both so I guess I'm alright enough to choose.  _You_ ," I point a finger at Dick, "clearly don't seem to be real capable of talking. So, Jaybird," I turn what I  _think_  is a bright grin at Jason, "how about you tell me what this whole thing is about? Not that I don't appreciate you hauling me off the streets, but people like us don't operate off the idea of 'free' too much."

It is just  _amazing_  how furious Jason looks, and he's still not actually lunging at me. Wow. Serious restraint indeed. I wonder if that's a Talon thing? Yeah, it probably is.

Jason takes in a slow breath, obviously forcing himself to sit back against the wall, and meets my eyes with just a little bit less anger. "Interested in suicide?" he asks bluntly.

"Not so much," I answer instantly.

"Too bad," he snaps back. "What the hell did you mean; our 'former boss' is why you're an addict? What the hell does the Owl have to do with you?"

I give a little shrug, even as anger twists and boils in my stomach.  _Hatred_ , for the man that officially took the last shred of my life from me. "You heard about the whole fallout with Red Archer, right?"

"Oliver Queen?" Jason says pointedly. "Yeah."  _Right_ , they're both ex-Talons. Owlman knows way too much about everything, everyone knows that. Clearly that got passed along to his two not-sidekicks.

"Right, and all the shit with Cheshire, and our daughter."  _That_ still stings, and I have to take a breath before I can continue. "Well, after I was fairly healed," which reminds me, I should really  _check_ my leg and see how it is, "I started planning to get the hell out of Star City, naturally. I got my cash, you probably saw the news go insane with that whole 'Red Archer murders innocents' thing, about the three people in front of the casino?" Jason gives a short little nod, and I shrug. "That was me. I had it, I was totally ready to call people and go, and  _your_ former boss, that royal  _dick_  that is Owlman, calls me in the apartment I'm hiding in."

Jason's mouth tightens, and D's shoulder twitches in a way I know means he's listening, even if he's back to looking mostly unconscious and obviously dying.

"He tells me I can either turn myself into an addict and hit the streets, or he's going to grab me, do it himself, and let me back out. Fun choices, right?" I give a bitter little huff of breath and lean a little more heavily against the doorframe. "Well, the fun fact is that I'm not suicidal, and your former boss has got some scary connections. I'm not becoming responsible for the death of Cheshire, or my daughter. No fucking way. So here I am, totally ruined and with  _shit_ for a reputation. One fun warning that it doesn't pay to fight the big league assholes."

Jason drags a breath in through his teeth, wincing and crossing his arms. "Yeah, sounds like the bastard."

I give a snort of laughter and a grin that feels edged and kind of vicious. " _Fuck_ the rest of the world for actually thinking I'd do this, you know? Maybe I'm not a particularly nice person when it comes to the general health of other human beings, but I'm  _good_ at that. Sometimes life just sucks, I knew  _that_ a long time ago. I wasn't an idiot then either. I've seen the shit that happens to addicts, I've rubbed elbows with psychopaths so strung out that they'd kill anyone you wanted for another touch of whatever the hell they were using. I would  _never_ have done that to myself."

D reaches back, tapping Jason's elbow with faint pressure, and the younger ex-Talon glances down at him before looking back at me. He bites down on his lower lip for a second, studying me with a look that — even though he's clearly got some anger issues — feels pretty scarily perceptive. I think that's another Talon thing.

"What do you want me to call you, ass?" he asks after a minute or so, with only a little bite to his tone.

I give half a shrug. "Names are just words really. Haven't decided if I'm not Arsenal anymore, not sure what I could even  _do_ with that title anymore."

Jason taps his fingers against his arm, and nods down towards D. "He's dying, the Owl's fault. He's got maybe a few more months before he can't do shit.  _I'm_ pretty much top of the bastard's list of people he wants dead. Dick faked his own death, and then came back and got me out of there too. We've been with Ra's al Ghul for a little under the last five months, he taught me."

I nod. "Yeah, you move like one of their assassins. What's this got to do with me, though?"

"You going to become an addict again?" he demands.

"Oh hell no," I answer with a laugh. "I'm so done with this shit."

One of Jason's eyebrows arches. "Yeah? What if the bastard comes back and demands you do it? He got you to ruin your reputation for a  _reason_ , you think he's going to let you fix it?" My stomach drops, and my grin falters.

Fuck. I hadn't thought about that. Wouldn't once be enough for Owlman? Or… Yeah, I'm probably screwed. He probably  _won't_ like me putting my life back together. Well shit, what then?

"I'm not doing this again," I manage through the swirl, until my traitorous brain fills in:  _unless he threatens Lian._

"I've got a worse option for you," Jason offers, easing back a bit beside the still form of D. "How about killing him?"

My gaze snaps up, meeting Jason's, and after a moment I tilt my head a bit to the side. "You're serious," I say with disbelief. "That's  _suicide,_ for anyone. You think the two of us and one useless — no offense — dying guy are going to take down the damn Owlman? You're crazy."

"You can stay an addict the rest of your life instead, if you want. It must  _suck_ to be totally cut off from your daughter, huh?"

"Don't  _go there_ ," I snarl, for the first time genuinely wanting to hurt Jason. Just for a second, but the reminder is  _painful_ and he does  _not_ get to mock me being alone.

"Don't  _make me_ ," he snarls right back. "Face the damn facts, Roy. You did what Owlman wanted once, he  _knows_ he can make you do it again. You'll  _never_ get away from him now." He snorts and shakes his head. "It's fucking easy for me. If I don't kill him, I'm going to spend my whole life getting driven from remote place to remote place, hiding in whatever scrap of land I can find, and if he ever catches me I get  _tortured_ to death,  _real_ slowly. I  _know_ the kind of shit he can do. It's me or him, so  _fuck_ that son of a bitch. I'm at least going down swinging. What the hell are  _you_ going to do?"

I watch him, his words hitting home low and  _hard_. Oh, I wish he wasn't right. But who knows Owlman as well as one of the kids that got abused and beaten into a Talon? Christ, how  _badly_ did these two get hurt to be… Well, to be  _this?_ What kind of fucked up things did the Owl do to the two of them to make two people who are this committed to taking him down? Because, well,  _damn_. Taking on Owlman is a really painful kind of suicide.

Jason stares at me, meeting my gaze with his own. "What the fuck do you have to lose, Roy?" he demands.

I snort in amusement, then realism undercuts it with a vicious drop. "Lian," I say softly. "I have  _her_. Fuck, if Owlman goes after her—"

"She's with  _Ra's al Ghul,_ " Jason tells me flatly. "There's no safer place, for anyone. I saw her there, actually. Cheshire is a  _bitch_ , how the hell did you ever fall for that woman?"

I actually laugh that time. It's not really  _happy_ , but it feels good. "My own personal taste, I guess. She's alright? Jade, Lian...?"

Jason shrugs. "Lian's a baby, how the fuck do I know what looks alright on a kid like that? Fuck, why are you even asking  _me_ what alright is like? Like I'd fucking know. Your kid was giggling, and didn't seem to be abnormally pale or dying so, yeah, sure. She's probably fine. Cheshire's a bitch, and she's pissed, but Dick's convinced she's pretty much fronting a badass look to the rest of the League so they don't try questioning her. She's not dying either."

'That's about the worst reassurance I've ever heard," I say flatly, and Jason gives me a look somewhere between a glare and a disbelieving expression.

"You want reassurance from an ex-Talon?" he asks dryly. "You're fucking nuts."

"Yeah, I thought that too." I go silent, staring at the two of them. If Jade and Lian are safe — and yeah, I can probably trust Ra's al Ghul to keep them that way, the guy's a legend — then what  _do_  I have left to lose?

I don't have a reputation, I don't have a home, I don't have a life. Oliver and Owlman took all of that from me. I guess I'd be officially giving up any hope that Oliver would eventually take me back into the Queen family, or at least back as Arsenal. But you know what,  _fuck_  him. He got me in this situation, and he let Owlman fucking  _ruin_  me, so I seriously don't owe him any kind of loyalty anymore.

"Kill Owlman, huh?" I ask, with a tiny grin. Jason mimics it. "Yeah, I think I could get behind that goal."

D gives a tiny little smile — more than just a flinch of one corner of his mouth — and Jason's grin gets bigger. "Welcome to the team, ass."


	14. Falling From the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So the chapter title might be kinda spoilery. Or it might not be. XD You'll see!

"So," Roy starts, easily leaning over the counter of the kitchen towards Jason and me, "we should discuss plans, now that I'm all back to normal."

He's in the kitchen, he's cooking, and Jason and I are in the dining table section of the two part room. Jason's cleaning a selection of guns, and I'm really just watching the two of them and letting my mind wander. Jason nearly snarled at me when I tried to help with his weapons, and Roy firmly shooed me out of the kitchen when I suggested helping him. Turns out that Star City rich kids know how to cook, who would have figured? I suppose as an only child, with no servants and only someone as notoriously unreliable as Oliver Queen to help, he must have learned how to cook to avoid only eating take out food and frozen dinners.

Jason looks up for about two seconds, glancing between us, and then snorts and leans back in his chair a little more firmly. His hands are involved with rubbing at the metal of the one particular piece of the gun he's disassembled.

"What?" Roy asks, and Jason gives a tiny little shrug, lifting the metal to glint off the light in here as he examines it.

"Have at it, Roy," Jason answers easily, putting that piece down and picking up the next. "I don't know why you're bringing it up to  _me_ , it's not like I've got the faintest clue about Star City. That's all  _you_  guys."

True. As far as I know Jason's never been in Star City before our time here with Roy. If he has, it was very brief and Bruce would have supervised him very closely. He might not even have known precisely where he was.

Roy seems to think about it for a second, and then mimics Jason's shrug. "Yeah, okay, Jaybird. D, what do you think?"

I'm really rather impressed that Jason hasn't physically hurt Roy for calling him by that nickname yet. In fact, interestingly, after the first week or so after Roy started it — as our new marksman teammate was still recovering from withdrawal — Jason's actually seemed to start to enjoy it. As if it's a term of endearment, rather than an irritation. It's actually very interesting. Jason has a short fuse at the best of times, but he and Roy seem to have clicked together really well. I'm glad.

I raise my gaze off of Jason to turn to Roy, who's half-watching me from beyond the counter as he creates… something. Honestly, I've given up asking. Roy makes things, and they're almost always tasty and at least edible. It's better not to get involved. I generally can't cook anything impressive anyway, and as far as I know Jason can't either. I know all the theories, but with Alfred at the manor I never needed much beyond basic skills.

"It would be safest to get back to Ra's' stronghold as quickly as possible," I offer to the table, and I watch Roy stiffen for just a second.

"You sure about that?" he asks, with a faint laugh and a small grin. "I'm welcome there?"

"I cleared you with Ra's before we left," I explain. "You're welcome, that's a guarantee." Of course, it's not Ra's' acceptance that Roy is worried about. It's the hero that started his entire downward spiral. Cheshire, the mother of his child and the woman he's still very obviously in love with. She's currently sequestered in Ra's' stronghold, for the sake of safety, and Roy seems to be dreading the idea of seeing her again. I don't even fully understand the concept of love — though perhaps it might be something similar to what I feel for Jason — but it's still easy for me to see. He should despise her for what she did to him, but he doesn't.

Roy shrugs, looking a bit doubtful, but doesn't argue the point. He's prouder than that, even around the two of us. He won't bring up his doubts about how Cheshire — Jade Nguyen — will greet him.  _If_  she'll greet him. It's entirely possible that she'll simply hide herself away and be careful to never cross paths with him, as if they weren't even in the same building.

"Alright, well, there is the problem that we're both kinda recognizable. I mean, you're dead and I'm a vanished, drug addict, disowned son, but people still know our faces."

"That's not difficult to fix," I reassure Roy, and Jason gives a distracted nod of his head that might be agreement. "We'd just need a few basic make up supplies, no one looks close enough to see past that. Though ideally, we should be traveling during a less populated time. Not night, but perhaps very early morning. Before the work rush, but after the sun is starting to rise. It's still fairly cold that early in the morning, so no one will question coats, scarves, or sunglasses. You'll need to wear a beanie or something similar, Roy, to hide your hair."

"I know," he answers easily, and one hand rises to comb back through the distinctive strands of reddish orange. It's better now, closer to how I remember it from the time I spent here as Talon, and then the news I watched after that.

When we, essentially, kidnapped Roy and forced him into withdrawal, he had a fairly disturbing collection of facial hair. A full beard, long hair, and none of it cleaned right, understandably. The third day after Roy passed the worst of it, when he could walk and talk like a normal person again, he commandeered a razor and a pair of scissors and vanished into the bathroom. When he came back out, he looked a little more like a normal human again, and not the mountain man he'd been accidently impersonating. Not great, because there's only so much you can do to cut hair with a pair of scissors, your own two hands, and a mirror, but at least human again.

Jason did a fair amount of nasty snickering — they hadn't quite clicked yet — but he also took the scissors and fixed Roy's hair. It certainly doesn't look professional, but it looks less like someone took scissors to it and it's significantly shorter, so I suppose that's an improvement. It is, however, still a very eye-catching color.

"The better question is how to leave Star City without triggering any alarms." I catch Roy's gaze as he looks back over. "You probably know current methods of transport better than I do."

He gives me a weird look. "Well, my hometown so, yeah, but why does that matter? If we're disguising or hiding anyway, why would we need to be careful about how we leave?"

I share a look with Jason, who gives another snort and turns his head to look at Roy. "You vanished out from under the Owl's nose, genius. You think he's not looking for you? If the three of us take any kind of normal way out, we're pretty much fucked."

Roy blinks, stilling for a second before something sizzles and he turns back to the stove. "Okay, hadn't thought about that," he admits.

"You were planning to get out of Star City before this, weren't you?" I ask Roy, and he makes a distractedly affirmative noise. "Queen was hunting you at the time, you had to have planned some way out that got you past his security."

He lifts the pan, scraping whatever's in it onto three separate plates and — I assume, since I can't see it from this angle — turning off the stove. There's a clank of metal as he sets it down, then he turns fully towards Jason and me. "Yeah, I was. There's a system of transporters, drivers and stuff, that get people in and out of major cities for the right price. Totally anonymous. Not even the Crime Syndicate touches them, they're too useful. You happen to have about fifteen grand lying around? That's what it would cost for three of us; maybe more since I'm high profile and I've got luggage."

Jason snorts and reaches for another piece of the gun. "Yeah, not so much. Any options that don't require us to have money, rich boy?"

I lean back a little bit, tapping my fingers against the table as I consider. I don't know Star City very well, not when it comes to transport. I did do a lot of work here as Talon, but when I worked here for Queen I stayed here too, there was never a need for stealthy ways in and out of the city. I never learned it the way I probably should have, not like I learned Gotham. I could probably figure out a way to get us from here  _to_  Gotham, that's my expertise, but clearly that's not going to help. We want that direction, but it's practically safer to go the opposite direction around the world then try to cross over or around Gotham without Bruce noticing us.

Roy sets a plate down in front of me, and then one off to the side of Jason — not touching his spread of guns — before reaching back across the counter for his own plate and three forks. He drops one in front of each of us and sits down.

"It's good, eat it," he says, before either of us can comment on the mish mash of something yellow — maybe eggs? — and various bits of other colors. I think it might be something resembling an omelet, it seems to smell that way.

Jason glances at it, but doesn't immediately move for the plate, whereas I do after a moment. I may not trust Roy's sense of exactly what food should  _look_  like, but I trust it to be at least fairly good tasting. I suppose that's a skill of living alone that I never really picked up. I take a first bite, semi-cautiously. It  _is_  pretty good, even with my lack of tolerance for food these days. Even aggravating my throat in the smallest of ways can send me into coughing fits, so I try not to eat any more than necessary.

It won't be long now, I'm sure. Especially not once we get back to Ra's'. My attacks calmed down when we left and they haven't been as bad down here, but the thin air up there makes everything harder, and I know that when we get back I'll take a rather large step towards being almost complete down for the count. Again. If I wasn't invested in Jason's safety, I'd almost just wish for it to end now, to make things simpler. Yes, I can drag myself along for a few months or maybe even more, but it won't be pleasant and I won't be useful. What would be the harm in checking out early? Well, I know the harm. Jason would attempt murdering me before I got anywhere close to suicide.

Jason finishes the piece, and carefully — but completely confidently and with an impressive speed — puts the gun back together, each piece clicking smoothly into where it's supposed to go. Then, setting the weapon aside and clearing a space in front of him among the other guns he hasn't gotten to yet, he reaches for the plate.

"Your food  _still_  looks like shit," he informs Roy, with a pointed glance, and our marksman grins back.

"But it tastes  _delicious_  and you know it, Jaybird."

Jason snorts, digging into the food, and I let my lip twitch upwards in a smile. My impending death aside, things are actually good; better than they've been in a long while. Jason is the easiest, the calmest, he's ever been, and even though the two of us are still much closer than Roy and him are, they're getting there. I think he'll be alright when I'm gone, and that's a load off my shoulders that makes everything else easier to work through. Without having to worry about Jason and what's going to happen after I die, I can focus on the present. It's a relief.

Suddenly Roy makes a noise fairly close to a dying animal — a half choked burst of exclaiming sound — and both Jason and I give nearly the same identical flinch as we jerk towards him. He waves us off as he sinks back against his chair and heaves for breath, finally letting it loose with a whooping laugh. Jason is looking at him like he's  _insane_ , and though I doubt I have anything remotely close to the same expression, I'm thinking about the same thing.

I admit, Roy has always been strange. Even when I was Talon and he was still Arsenal, there were times I found— Alright, no, that isn't right. As Talon, I found his behavior almost all the time to be completely incomprehensible. But specifically, there were times that he would burst out laughing, or be totally pissed at someone or thing, and I'd never have a clue what he was thinking about. This feels like that.

"You want to share your crazy, Roy?" Jason asks dryly, arms crossing over his chest, and Roy seems to have to physically choke back his laughs.

It takes him a bit.

"I have the  _best_ idea," he says, with what I think might be the widest grin I've ever seen on him. His eyes are bright, so  _alive_  that I think — for a moment — that he might actually have slipped past the edge of crazy.

Jason gives a little disbelieving snort, but leans back and raises one hand in some kind of vague gesture. "Go on then, crazy man."

"Let's steal  _Oliver's plane_."

"You  _are_  fucking nuts," Jason answers flatly, after a second of silence. "You want to steal the plane of the guy that wants you dead? I think you left sane on the road, you want to go pick it back up?"

I stay silent, watching Roy as he shakes his head. He must have  _some_  reason why he thinks this will work. All appearances aside, Roy is rather  _viciously_  intelligent, he always was. Maybe not for social situations — watching him when I was Richard and he was Roy was highly entertaining, if a little painful — but in combat, and for strategy, he's always been very,  _very_  good at everything to do with staying alive or killing others.

"No but  _listen_ , Jaybird," Roy flashes me a wide grin. "Alright, so Oliver's an asshole, and Owlman will be watching all the ways in and out of the city, right? Probably even the ones  _I_  might think are usually safe. So let's do something that's fucking nuts. If we take Oliver's plane, and take off before Owlman notices, we'd be able to get anywhere we wanted before he could stop us."

"He'd track us," Jason put in, and when Roy looks to me I give a shallow nod.

"Jason's right. Bruce monitors all of Queen's methods of transport, there's a tracker inside your plane." Owlman's personal brand of security, making sure he knows where his allies are at all times whether they appreciate it or not. "That's not bringing up the security Queen will have on the plane itself, and you've been locked out of all those things, haven't you?"

"Do you know where the tracker is? Could you destroy it, or disable it?" Roy asks, ignoring my question.

I pause. "Yes," I answer after a few moments of thinking about it. "They aren't difficult to destroy, just well hidden. I know where that one is."

Roy leans back, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Yeah, Oliver locked me out of the systems, but I  _built_  most of that plane. You think I didn't put in backdoor codes? Even if he found those — and Oliver? Not so great with technology, just saying — I could hack into the systems and get them to do anything I wanted them to."

I blink, and Jason seems to share my surprise. "You thought that far ahead?" I ask, with a hint of doubt. I don't doubt Roy's survival instincts, but I do doubt his ability to plan for the long term. He's  _never_ planned for the long term.

"Ahead to this? Oh hell no. But I figured that on the off chance anyone else took control of the plane, it might be good to have some backup security in place." He shrugs, managing to get his grin a little wider. "Sure, I didn't think I might need those to  _steal_ it, but I guess that works too, right? It's not like there's some command on the plane where I can only use the codes to take it back from a hero."

"You're fucking nuts," Jason repeats. "But you might have a decent idea there. Dick?" He looks over at me, as does Roy, and I give a tiny lift of one shoulder.

"It could work. Where does Queen store the plane?" I ask.

"The normal one is stored in Star City's airport, it's own private garage, but the whatever-the-hell he's called it this week — Christ, remember when Oliver called it the 'Arrowplane'? — is in our main base of operations, out at the Queen manor. I know that security like the back of my hand, I can get us in no problem. Which one do you want to take?"

"Why go small?" Jason says with a thin smile. "Let's grab the jet for your work, it's probably way better right?"

Roy nods, self-satisfaction all but leaking from his pores. "Definitely. It's not nearly as comfortable, and it's smaller, but it's way more maneuverable and better equipped. Faster, more durable, and I built a load of weapons into it. Oh he'll be so  _pissed_ when we take it." There's that more vicious side to Roy showing through again. Normally, I always saw Roy as a generally good natured person, even if he didn't seem to have any real sense of morals, but then I guess I'd never seen anyone personally wrong him before.

Of the three of us, Roy is the only one who actually chose this lifestyle, so I suppose that says something about him. Jason and I were forced to become weapons and killers, but Roy actually joined up with Red Archer of his own free will, as far as I'm aware. Though obviously his relationship with Queen was much friendlier than ours with Bruce.

"You're sure you can get us in?" I question, watching Roy for any kind of tell he might give, but every single inch of him is confidence; not even an involuntary twitch.

"Yeah, totally."

I share another glance with Jason, who gives half of a shrug and goes back to his food. "Alright," I acquiesce, turning my attention fully to Roy. "So, it comes down to details then. Later, I'll show you where Ra's' base is, how to get there, and how to get in without getting shot down."

"Why?" Roy asks, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth and, thankfully, waiting until he's finished chewing and has swallowed to continue. "You'll both be there, you know how."

"He really hasn't grasped the whole 'plan for the worst' thing, has he?" Jason remarks with a bit of sarcasm, but doesn't look up from his food.

"In case things go badly," I explain in a way that's a little more obvious than Jason's comment. "If anything happens, and it ends up with just you on the plane, or the two of us not being able to guide you, you'll need to know. I'll show you. Beyond that," I almost swallow, but force the urge away. Regardless of how unpopular this might be, it's a topic that needs to come up. "If things  _do_  go badly, and we get ambushed, I want the two of you to leave me behind if anything goes wrong." A kinder way to say 'if I suffer an attack.'

" _Excuse_  me?" Jason nearly snarls, looking up at me. "You're fucking delusional if you think I'm leaving you behind."

"If the choice is between your survival and mine—"

"It  _won't_ be," Jason interrupts. "All three of us are getting back to Ra's' in  _one piece_. Including  _you_. If you think for a fucking second that I'm going to let you play distraction and get yourself killed, you're  _insane_."

"As opposed to  _what_ , Jason?" I ask flatly, leaning back a little bit in my chair. Roy is very,  _very_ silent to the side of both of us, but watching. "Getting back to Ra's' at the cost of one or both of you, so I can limp my way through the next four or five months, if I'm lucky, before I die? It doesn't matter how you spin that, Jason, I'm  _dying_. Getting back to Ra's' and dragging myself through the motions is not a mercy."

"Death isn't a mercy either," Jason snarls, shoving back from the table and standing. Instinctive looming, intimidation, as well as a way for him to show violence and anger without actually attacking. "It's  _not_. Don't you dare fucking argue with me, Dick."

"That's not the  _point_ , Jason. If we get ambushed, I'm the most qualified to act as a diversion. That's  _fact_ , not theory or even my opinion. The two of you have lives, I don't. It makes sense for me to risk the few months I have left to keep both of you alive."

"You—"

"Sit  _down_ ," I demand, using Bruce's tone, and I see Roy give a sharp flinch to my side, green eyes widening. Jason's hands clench, shoulders drawing inwards.

" _No_ ," he spits, and shoves away from his half bent over brace against the table. "I'm not doing this, Dick. I am  _not_  leaving you behind, I don't give a damn what you think."

"And I am  _not_  going to be responsible for  _your_  death," I counter, getting up to meet Jason at his height.

"You  _won't_  be."

"You  _can't_  guarantee that," I point out sharply. "If I go into an attack in the middle of a fight, and you try and get me out, you're risking getting yourself turned in to Bruce if not personally captured by him. He'll torture you into  _insanity_  before he lets you die. That's  _not worth_ me living through four more months of what's barely even worth the title, Jason. It's  _not_. I'm not suicidal, and if we get back to Ra's' and I do 'live' through these last few months, that's fine, but I will not let  _you_ get captured while I can prevent it by risking  _my_ life, and I will  _not_ let you sacrifice yourself for  _me_. Are we  _clear_ , Jason?"

He glares at me, frustration obvious in his gaze, but it slowly folds — as we stare at each other across the table — into resignation. He pulls his chair back in and slowly sits down, leaning back with his arms crossed. Guilt stirs in my gut — I  _hate_ , and that's not a word I use lightly, causing Jason pain — and I smother a small wince. It doesn't matter if he doesn't like it, I know that. This is for his sake, and if I got him killed... That would rather invalidate the entire reason for me dying, wouldn't it? I could still have been in Metropolis, living quietly but steadily, with Bruce still unaware I ever lived. If he dies... I don't know what I would do. I honestly don't.

I sit back down, and Roy very cautiously clears his throat.

"Alright, so uh, is there anything else?" he asks. I can hear the uncomfortable tinge to his voice, and his voice is quieter than anything else I've heard out of him except for moments where he was mostly unconscious.

Jason jerks his gaze away from mine, and drops it back to his food. I watch him for another moment, and then do my best to smother the guilt as I turn to Roy. "If we're separated, we meet up at Ra's'. That's the other reason you'll need to know where it is. When we're done with the rest of the details, I'll bring up the information."

Roy gives a small nod, glancing over at Jason with obvious worry, and then looks back at me. "So, travel from here to there, right? I actually still don't know where we are, but if you let me know I can get us from here to there while bypassing any of Oliver's security. I know where all of it is."

"Good," I echo his small nod, and take the same small glance at Jason, who's resolutely ignoring both of us. It doesn't matter, right? It doesn't.

There's only a small chance any of this won't turn out just the way we plan it; all of us are good strategizers. If that small chance doesn't bite us, we should all end up at Ra's' without a problem, and we should be able to smooth things back over once we're there. The two of us will be fine, I'm sure of it.

* * *

"We could have just taken the car," Roy gripes, again.

"Hush," Jason snaps, slipping by our marksman teammate and shoving his shoulder as he passes. "Christ, you complain a lot."

"Well we could have just driven, left the car like a mile back, and been fine," Roy says with, yes, a bit of complaint to his voice. "The Queen manor is ten miles outside of the main parts of town, what the hell makes you think we'd want to walk? Why  _are_  we walking? It would have been  _so_  easy to just hotwire a car, or steal the keys, or hire a damn taxi."

I don't answer him, devoting a fair bit of attention to simply putting one foot in front of the other. My legs are fine, it hasn't been a struggle to get this far — I've walked farther and longer many times, and even though I haven't been able to keep in shape like I want to, I'm far from weak — but I am a bit behind the other two members of my team. Mostly because I don't want them to see that I'm having to focus so fully on breathing. It's not difficult, but if I let that go and let my breathing become anything but slow and just the right mix of shallow, but still getting enough air, I could collapse into another fit. I can't afford an attack right now.  _We_  can't.

"Shut the hell up, dumbass," Jason nearly snarls, frustration and irritation obvious in his voice. "Stealing a car would be  _stealing_  it, it'd draw attention, and hiring a taxi, as the three of us? You're fucking joking, right? Not even you could be  _that_  dumb. If anyone reported the car we stole missing before we got here, this could all go seriously downhill, and  _really_  fast. Suck it the hell up, it's not that long a walk."

"Maybe not for—" I see Jason's head snap around to glare, and wisely Roy snaps his mouth shut in the middle of his sentence. "Alright, fine. Nevermind. It's not  _that_  much further anyway, I guess. Like maybe, five minutes? How can you not even be sweating, Jaybird, are you a  _machine?_ "

I give my head a tiny shake, letting my gaze and my attention wander off my two teammates and into the surrounding area. We're about thirty feet off the main road, which is a highway that is only sparsely populated by buildings. We're down off the side of it, where you can't see us unless you're parked at the side and looking down. The Queen manor, I remember, is set about a mile back from the highway on its own private drive; gate, dogs, and alarms included. There's not a thing around it for quite a ways, which is the only reason that Queen and Roy could get away with having their base there. The cave is different, it's underneath Wayne manor and not just on the same property, and the exit lets out miles and miles down the road, nearly to the main city. It's a little more subtle.

I suppose no one's going to go into the Queen lands without permission though, not without a serious wish of self-harm. I remember the dogs on the property. Mean things, even though I never had much of a problem with them. I slipped around them, or just made sure to take paths — mainly from tree to tree — that they couldn't follow me on. We should be completely fine this time, though, since Roy knows all the dogs and they know his scent. They shouldn't come after us or even bark so long as we're with him.

Jason and Roy's conversation continues, with only a single threat from Jason when Roy makes another comment about the distance before we reach the start of the private road and driveway that leads off to the lands. There's a sign, and a warning, and Roy easily leads the way in without hesitation. I share a glance with Jason, and we follow him.

"So, what's the easiest way in to the base section of your place?" Jason asks, and though I know the answer I let Roy say it.

"Actually, straight in. A little off to one side of the driveway is best, but most of the extra security is around the back so going more or less head on to the base's entrance is our best bet to avoid being picked up by anything. I can get us past all the security, no problem, and as long as you stay behind me and don't make any threatening moves, the dogs should be just fine with our being there. Just, you know, follow my lead but quieter."

Jason rolls his eyes, and then steps a little closer to me in his stride and leans in to lightly brush my shoulder with his. "You alright?" he asks, very quietly. Quietly enough that I'm fairly sure Roy didn't hear it, which is impressive considering he's about ten feet in front of us.

"Just monitoring," I answer shortly. "I'm fine."

Jason gives me a look that's not totally trusting, but nods. "Alright. If anything comes up you damn well tell me, understand?" It almost sounds like a threat, it probably was meant to be, but there's a shine of concern in his eyes that undercuts the words. I let my mouth twitch upwards in a smile.

"I'm injured and dying, Jason," I answer softly, "not useless. I'll be fine."

Jason gives a snorted, unhappy huff of breath, but rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders in a way that I know means he's decided to drop the subject, for now. Not forever, because unless Jason gets the answer he wants he  _never_  drops  _anything_ , but he'll stop talking about it for now.

Roy starts whistling, and I almost wince. Jason  _does_  wince.

"Do you have to do that?" my replacement demands, speeding up to walk beside Roy and shove his shoulder again.

"Relax, Jaybird. No one's around, and Oliver will be very,  _very_  asleep right now. I can be loud as I want, so long as we don't trip any alarms — which we won't because I am  _awesome_  — there's no way we'll wake him up."

It's roughly six in the morning, which I suppose is the time that almost all masked criminals are passed out. Bruce's patrols usually ended about this time, if not a little earlier, so he'd be either heading home or already asleep, and from what Roy's brought up apparently Oliver works an earlier section of the night. Afternoon to somewhere around two or three AM, before firmly crashing until it's time to wake up and go about the day as Red Archer again. Unless, of course, there's a meeting at Queen Consolidated that he absolutely can't miss, but Roy hacked into their servers for us and made sure there weren't any scheduled for today.

Queen will be asleep, and any staff he has — two housekeepers and a few security guards, according to Roy — won't be there until almost nine; they also know Queen's hours and regular schedule.

"It's not a question of anyone hearing us," Jason gripes, "you're just annoying as fuck to listen to."

Roy gives a wide grin that manages to be fakely innocent and kind of mean at the same time. "And I'm getting you in somewhere that's guaranteed to get  _us_  out, so you can suck it up, can't you Jay?"

Jason glares, nearly snarls, but just throws up his hands in exasperation. "You're impossible sometimes," he snaps.

"Aw, that's okay Jaybird," Roy mocks. "We'll get you out of that shell someday!" He reaches over, leaning to wrap the closer arm around Jason's shoulders, and I raise an eyebrow as Jason stiffens. For a moment I'm sure Jason is going to hurt Roy fairly badly, or at least back him off in a way that's physically violent and very painful.

Then Jason eases a bit, and snorts. "I don't need to come out of my shell," he argues, "I  _like_  it in here, thanks." I blink, and then an actual smile that I don't have to fake curls my mouth a bit.

It's so  _good_  to see Jason letting someone that isn't me touch him in a way that's even remotely casual. Sure, Roy is kind of a physical person and he's given all kinds of small pats — ones to a shoulder, or back — or brushed against Jason as he passed by, but I can't recall ever seeing him deliberately touch. I think he knew better. In fact, now that I'm looking, I can see the casual rest of Roy's hand inside his pocket, where I happen to know he's storing a small knife. Alright, so if Jason turned on him Roy was prepared. At least he's about half as paranoid as both of us, he might just fit in.

Roy pulls the hand out of his pocket and shifts the backpack slung over that same shoulder, the arm not wrapped around Jason's shoulders. It's a little awkwardly shaped, and unzipped at the very top so that the end of his bow can come through, but it was certainly better than carrying all of his gear and costume publicly. Jason and I are much easier. We don't have costumes, and all of our weapons are small enough, even Jason's guns, to be hidden discreetly inside a coat.

Since it's still cold at about six in the morning, a coat isn't hard to have.

Of course, Roy is much better equipped than either of us, too. He's got everything he usually carried as Arsenal, as well as an additional quiver full of arrows. That includes his normal quiver and bow, a gun as well as at least four clips — I haven't looked through everything — of extra ammo for it, his usual knife for both hand to hand combat and intimidation, antidotes for various poisons, basic medical supplies, and quite a few other small gadgets. Unlike us, Roy was more item based then pure stealth and talent, and he actually got a chance to grab extra stuff before he left. I couldn't, just in case, and Jason didn't get the time.

He won't need the disguise for long. Once we're on the Queen grounds proper there won't be anyone to see, but people are going to question it if Arsenal goes walking down the side of the highway. Well, question or panic. Neither of which were things we wanted; both tend to draw attention we can't afford at the moment. This entire plan revolves on getting in and out without anyone finding us.

Sure, the three of us could probably take down Queen without too much trouble, especially considering he'd still be sleep addled, and probably not totally geared for a fight. I imagine not too many people ambush him at his own home; that's the best explanation I can give for why he'd risk being totally alone in his own home while asleep. Bruce was always too careful to risk that. But if Queen's alerted, I can almost guarantee that Bruce will also know, or Queen will tell him.

"You only  _think_  you like it," Roy says, and even from this angle I can tell that Jason is rolling his eyes again.

"You're totally insane," he informs Roy, who just grins. "Get your arm off me before I break it, we still need you to shoot things." Interestingly, Jason's threat really doesn't sound like one. I'm absolutely sure he means it — and Roy obviously knows that too, because he does let his arm drop off Jason's shoulders — but it doesn't sound particularly like a threat. It sounds joking, like something said to a friend — at least that's how I interpret it, as I'm not precisely sure what that kind of tone sounds like — or to a colleague. Essentially, it doesn't sound much like Jason will actually follow through on it.

At least Roy knows him well enough to know that even if Jason doesn't  _sound_ like he's threatening, his threats are still serious. Especially around touch, or references to being Talon or working for Bruce. Jason might be a whole lot better than he was after the Jokester and I got him out from under Bruce, but he's not a regular person, and he's not 'fine' any more than I am, or Roy is.

Sure, Roy might seem like he's totally alright most of the time, but even if Jason can't see it,  _I_ can. Roy lost just about everything he had, maybe permanently, and that isn't something that anyone can just shrug off. Roy happens to handle it better than a lot of other people, but even the things that hurt him he doesn't really show. Like Jason and anger, Roy hides behind laughter and grins to hide the fact that he's angry, and in pain. He's not over it, and he's certainly not 'fine' either, but he's managing a lot less obviously than most people will ever see.

"Ah,  _there_ we are!" Roy exclaims, picking up his step a little bit. Jason and I don't match his increase in speed.

The gate ahead of us — coming into view past the sculpted trees and grass surrounding this private road — is black, metal, ornate, and with no gaps big enough for any of us to fit through. I certainly could have done it when I was younger, as Talon, but not now. The walls stretching out to either side, on the other hand, are white and at least ten feet tall, what's probably just concrete with a painted exterior. No handholds on those, but one person jumping or being boosted by another should manage it just fine.

Roy leads the way to one side, straying into the grass and heading about fifty feet to the left of the gate while we're still about two hundred feet away, before heading closer. He beckons both of us with an impatient gesture and a roll of his eyes.

"Come  _on_ ," he gripes, and I share a glance with Jason.

"What's the rush?" Jason asks, with a small snort, and Roy gives a little gesture like he's totally given up on both of us. His grin the next second totally disproves it.

"The sooner I can break into Oliver's base, steal his plane, and be happily on my way, the better, right? I am  _so_  looking forward to this." Jason gets there first, and Roy flicks his fingers towards the ground. "Come on, help me up. I should go over first, in case the dogs are nearby."

Jason makes a face that isn't totally pleased, but crouches down a bit and braces his arms into an easy lace of fingers for sturdy support. Roy lifts one foot into it and Jason propels him up, where Roy grabs onto the top of the wall and hoists himself up to straddle it without a problem. He's not the acrobat that Jason and I both are, but he manages well enough. He leans down, offering Jason his hand, but Jason just gives him a  _look_.

With a slight brace, and a step and a half of a running start, Jason easily bounces off the wall and gets high enough to grab the top with both hands, equally easily dragging himself up.

"You could have just  _said_  that," Roy offers, and Jason snorts and neatly shoves Roy, who yelps, off the wall and into the inner area. There's a heavy thud from the other side. Jason leans down after a second of watching what I assume is Roy, offering me his hand as I come to a stop at the base of the wall. I take it, letting him prepare for a moment before he starts to pull me up.

Usually, yes, I would have been able to take the wall just as easily as Jason, if not even smoother, but not right now. Acrobatics are a surefire way to send myself into at least the beginnings of an attack, if not a full fledged episode of it. It… It's painful, not being able to do the only things that I'm actually good at — acrobatics, or any kind of combat — but I try not to think about it.

The inside of the manor's grounds is pretty much how I remember it. Absurdly landscaped gardens, opulent enough to actually rival Wayne manor, which is impressive. Although Bruce always tried to make sure the fewest people possible were on his property, so I suppose the gardening wasn't nearly as impressive or time consuming as this must be to maintain. I suppose Queen cares less about his personal privacy than Bruce does.

Jason and I slide down into the inner grounds, alongside Roy, who gives Jason a nasty glance that almost immediately flashes to a wide grin. "Alright, come with me," he says, taking off without waiting for either of us to respond to him. Jason shoots me a glance that looks kind of amused, trudging after Roy, and I follow them both. "Quieter now," Roy warns, "there shouldn't be anyone here, but they might be. If there are, they'll be inside the house and won't notice us but still, no yelling."

"You're the only one of the three of us who yells," Jason points out, and Roy shrugs.

"Not the point, Jaybird," he retorts, shooting a grin over his shoulder.

Interestingly, the journey through the Queen grounds is completely absent of any kind of activity. No dogs, no people, barely even an animal to be seen. The squirrels in the trees don't really count as noteworthy activity, they certainly aren't going to attack us. Roy doesn't question the good luck, and though Jason looks a bit wary he doesn't either, so I don't bring it up. Not having to face the dogs is a good thing, after all, just in case. Why would I bring up our good luck?

Roy leads the way to the entrance that I remember, a simple door in a half concrete shell that looks a bit like an entrance to a bunker or a doomsday shelter. So, nothing that looks out of place in the house and grounds of a paranoid rich man. Perhaps not as part of the surroundings as it would be at Wayne manor, but definitely not glaringly obvious like it would be in many other places.

Roy confidently pulls the panel beside the door apart, humming to himself as he takes to the wires inside with what I'm pretty sure is a pair of tweezers and a homemade blowtorch. I wince, but stand back and let him do what he wants.

"Seriously?" Jason asks, not nearly as cautiously as I might have, and Roy waves him off with the roll of a shoulder.

"Relax, Jaybird. I got this."

Jason looks at me, clearly seeking some kind of reassurance that Roy isn't going to get us all caught, and I give a small nod. "He hasn't messed up on anything technological as long as I've known him," I offer, and Roy makes a victorious crowing noise.

"See, Jay? Even D thinks I'm pretty damn awesome." Paraphrasing, but I don't stop to correct him. It takes a few minutes, where Jason shifts in spot and keeps his head on an almost constant turn, looking for danger of some kind, before Roy makes a small grunt of satisfaction and neatly clicks the panel back into place.

'There we are," he says easily, straightening up and poking at the panel with his fingertips. It glows blue for a moment, sweeping a scan past his hand, and then flashes green and the bunker hisses open. "Deleted me off the files, sure, but didn't scrub it. Just needed to revert the system to an earlier date where all my stuff was still intact. Piece of cake."

Roy shoves inside the bunker with easy familiarity, and both of us follow him down a flight of concrete stairs leading about fifty feet down. Then it opens up into a base that's about as far away from Bruce's cave as you could get.

It's brightly lit, made of shiny, metal surfaces and glowing high-tech looking panels, with racks of gear and all kinds of cabinets and storage devices scattered through it. There's a range to one side, with targets already scattered in holes, and another flight of stairs over to our right that leads up to the manor itself. Inside entrance. To our left there's a large metal door that I know slides open to a long tunnel, like Bruce's but much wider, that lets off just outside of Queen grounds. I've taken it quite a few times.

However, the highlight of the room is the plane sitting just in front of the door, and it's that that Roy heads for without a pause. It's bigger than Bruce's jet, and with smoother lines. Built for speed, clearly, and not meant to be the 'shadow in the night' that Bruce's is. It's painted in shades of black — shiny, not matte — and dark red, with an obvious cockpit and a variety of faint lumps on the outside of it — that only slightly detract from how streamlined it is — of what I'm sure are hidden weapons.

Roy immediately sets to work on a panel similar to the one at the side of the door, on one side of the plane, and gives a vague motion towards the two of us. "Do whatever," he calls, "this shouldn't take that long."

Jason sets to exploring, and I move over to stand next Roy and watch, fairly interested, as he takes apart the panel. "The same technology?"

"That's what Oliver took me in for," Roy says distractedly. "The whole criminal right hand thing came later, originally I was just some kid with a knack for building him what he needed. Ergo, most of the shit in here is my design. Dumbass." I glance over, and find to my complete lack of surprise that Jason has managed to ferret out where the guns are. I give a small sigh. "Say, while we're here," Roy continues, "do you think I could load up on stuff? I could only carry so much before, but with this baby we could store all kinds of crap. I know I'm not the hand-to-hand fighter you guys are, and I'd like to not run out of arrows any time soon. Building them without the right kind of materials is a pain in the ass."

I actually think it's a good idea, especially since we're down here already, but I don't immediately say that. "You could always ask Ra's for his help in collecting the correct materials," I point out, and Roy winces.

He speaks while holding the tweezers in his mouth, but I manage to decipher what he's saying without too much trouble. "You want me to ask a hero for help?"

"You're already asking him for help," I remind him, continuing my faint attempt to make Roy consider the position he's in. "The fact that I asked on your behalf does not mean that you aren't asking. Ra's is reasonable; I'm sure he'd consider allowing you materials to build whatever you wanted so long as it benefited him somehow. Considering we're planning to kill Owlman, it does benefit him."

Roy gives me a shifty, side glance of a look, and tilts his head a bit to one side. "Are you saying no?" he asks suspiciously. "Because it didn't totally sound like you were saying no."

I give a little twitch of a smile, the ones that Roy became very used to when I worked with him as Talon, as well as many of my other flickered expressions. "No, Roy. I think it's a good idea to take as much as you can, if you think it will definitely be useful."

"Hah!" At first, I think Roy is making the exclamation at me, and I raise an eyebrow, but then he secures the panel back into place and does the same fingerprint scan. The panel on the side of the jet, a door, slides down to rest against the ground as both of us step back to give it space. "Good," Roy comments, "because there is  _so_  much useful shit here, you don't even know."

"I think I can guess," I comment with a tiny smirk. "I've seen some of the things you pulled out on our old patrols, remember?"

"D, it's been like seven years since you last really worked with me. My stuff is  _so_  much better; I improved." He steps up into the jet with the stride of familiarity, and I follow him. He looks around with a grin, and throws his backpack to one side as he steps over to the pilot's seat — there are actually two seats, I suppose Queen valued Roy's expertise on the plane, but also valued his own pride too much to only have one pilot seat — and sinks into it, flexing his hands. "Alright, this'll take a little longer. Don't press any buttons until I'm done, alright? Security measures."

"I'll see how Jason's doing," I offer, as he sets to work.

"Yeah, that's good. Oh, and knock before you come back in, alright?" he requests, and I stare at him for a second before he notices and expands on his words. "Well I'm not staying in these clothes. When I'm done here I'm switching back over to my uniform, so don't come in or you might get an eyeful."

I give a soft huff of amusement, and lightly touch his shoulder with my hand before heading for the exit. "Understood," I call over my shoulder, heading back down the ramp and wandering over to where Jason is bent over a collection of guns laid out on top of a low metal table. I'm fairly sure he pulled them all out, and there's an expression on his face that is fairly close to glee, though much better restrained.

"Enjoying yourself?" I ask, walking up behind him, and he snorts.

"It's a good collection," he explains, turning and leaning back against the table as he nods up at the plane. "So? What's the genius doing in there?"

"Hacking the jet, I would assume. I didn't ask for specifics. He'd like to stock up on weaponry while we're here, take advantage of the storage capabilities of the plane while we have it. I think it's a good idea."

"Think Ra's will let us keep all of it?" Jason asks, with a raised eyebrow, and I can only offer a half shrug.

"Hard to say, but probably. We've made our intentions obvious, and he has an army if he needs it. I doubt he'd take our weapons, though he probably won't allow us to carry the heavier things around with us while we're in his home."

Ra's doesn't have anything to fear from any of us, not really, and he was already letting us carry around knives before all of this anyway. He knows that we're three criminals amidst a group of heroes, and abandoning our weaponry was something that was never going to happen. Not willingly anyway. He'll understand the same thing about Roy, and know that we'll raise hell if he tries to take any of this from us, or restrict us from it.

"Yeah, I guess," Jason answers noncommittally. "So, what are we doing until Roy is finished with the jet?"

"We could look around," I suggest. "See if we can find anything interesting, though we probably shouldn't touch any of the computer systems in here, or locks, just in case."

Jason gives a small grin and straightens off the table. "I'm down for that."

We go case by case, or shelf by shelf, examining items. Most are pretty self explanatory, but there are a few that Jason and I can't decipher the purpose of without turning them on, and we mutually decide that turning on things that we're not sure about is probably a bad idea.

But eventually Roy leans out of the jet, calling us both over with a wide grin. He's redressed in his Arsenal costume — a pair of black pants and a shirt that are both reinforced with armor, red gloves and boots, and a pouch-laden belt hanging around his hips — with the exception of the mask, bow slung over one shoulder and his quiver on his back.

Jason and I detour back to the jet, weaving through all the different items in here to come and stand by the ramp of the plane.

"We're all set to go," Roy announces, leaning against one side of the entrance. "Come on, let's load things up." I step back as Roy comes down the ramp, as does Jason, and our marksman teammate heads out to the rest of the room. "So the basics are ammo, guns bigger than handguns, I've got a  _lot_  of grenades—"

I hear it just a fraction of a second before Jason does. The faint click of a footstep that doesn't fall in line with Roy's, and the whisper of metal brushing concrete. My head snaps around, and I reach for the knife tucked inside the pocket of my coat. Jason goes for a gun instead, the one tucked up against the small of his back. The figure at the bottom of the staircase we came down, standing with one hand against the wall, gives a thin smile.

"—and there's a bunch of stuff inside the cabinets that are all specialty. Kryptonite, EMPs, stuff like that."

Bruce, in the full outfit and armor of Owlman, glances briefly at Roy, and Jason reacts instantly. The gun goes off, loud and echoing inside the base, and Bruce ducks away, immediately heading for us at a sprint.

"Holy  _shit_ ," Roy yells, and I glance at him to see him turning, arrow swinging downwards onto his bow, before I turn all my attention to Bruce.

This is  _bad_. We are  _not_  ready for him, not yet.

Jason takes another shot, which scrapes along the side of Bruce's metal guarded arm without leaving even a scratch, before he's on us. Jason ducks out of the way of a swipe of claws, shooting up at Bruce's face twice before the gun goes skidding from his hands, knocked loose by a backhanded blow from Bruce. Before I can move in, or Bruce can take advantage of Jason's currently weaponless state, an arrow slices through the air between their heads and both of them jerk away.

Jason's upper back hits the side of the jet, as he reaches for another weapon — his longest knife, this time — and draws it into his hand. Bruce turns, drawing something small from his utility belt and throwing it at the floor near Roy, who has enough combat sense to book it in the opposite direction before the thing lands. It explodes into green gas, and I step in beside Jason as my replacement flips the knife in his hand, sinking down a little bit.

He doesn't look at me directly, but I can see him glance in the direction of Roy, who's now totally hidden by the spread of gas. Bruce turns back to us, smirk firmly on his lips, and starts forward in a slow stalk. I can hear Jason swallow, though my ears are still faintly ringing from the gunshots.

My hand shifts on my own knife — smaller than Jason's — and I slip into an easily defensive stance, both arms held up and fairly close to my body. I'm going to be totally useless in this fight. Not only can I not do any serious level of acrobatics or combat, but I never picked up anything but the basics of what Ra's and Talia taught Jason. I'm still using the techniques Bruce taught me, and those won't work on him in the slightest. At least the three of us decided beforehand — at least, I hope Jason thinks this way, he never completely told me — that if I go down, they leave me behind. I'm not worth the danger of trying to save, since I'm dying within a few months anyway. What would be the point in risking their lives for me?

So if this goes badly — and I'm almost certain it will, considering Bruce tracked us down for a reason — they can try and escape instead of wasting time on me. It's better that way.

I step fully in front of Jason, who gives a sharp sound of protest, and I hold one hand up and back towards him. "Get Roy and get out," I order, shifting my grip on my knife just a bit, watching Bruce approach.

"But—"

" _Now_ ," I demand, and after a second I can hear his footsteps leap into action, and see him running towards the dissipating cloud out of my peripheral vision. "You tracked us," I say to Bruce, who pauses about ten feet from me. Not close enough for either of us to make a safe first move, but too close for ranged weapons to be of any use.

"Arsenal disabled Queen's security, but not mine," Bruce explains shortly, and then offers me a thin smile that — if I were anything but already dying — probably should scare me, but doesn't. "You're in my way, Richard."

Interesting, he's stopped calling me 'Talon'. Am I officially off his radar now, do I no longer count in his mind as one of his ex-weapons, or has he simply decided I no longer deserve the title? Knowing him as I do, it's probably the last option.

"That's the point, Bruce," I counter, and he  _moves_. I'd  _forgotten_  how fast he moves.

I jerk away from a kick past my head, right at level to impact with my throat, and instead of moving away, move in. I slide past the elbow that he levels at my side, feeling the fabrics of my coat and clothes slide along the metal of his armor and cape as I swing my knife in at his back. He steps away and spins, reaching out and slapping the knife from my hand. His fingers close around my wrist, and I bite my tongue to keep my enforced calm as he twists it. I fight the pain, and the manipulation of my body's automatic responses to that particular curve of my arm, and swing up at the exposed part of his jaw.

He knocks that arm aside, and twists my captive wrist until I hear — and feel in the radiation up my arm — a sick crack. Pain blindsides me, and I suck in a sharp breath and fold inwards on that arm, his fingers still locked around it. His knee cracks into my chin as I bend, with enough force that the next thing I know I'm on the floor, and though my wrist aches terribly, it isn't wrapped in his gauntlet anymore. I blink, staring upwards at his looming figure, and hear a thick shout from across the room.

"Get the  _fuck_ away from him!" Jason's voice.

Bruce's foot comes down on my chest, in a sharp snap kick, and I recoil and jerk against the ground. The impact stings, but doesn't really hurt in the way I expected of the blow, and I only have to wonder what the point was for a moment, as he turns away, before it gets very clear,  _very_  quickly.

My lungs seize, and I get one shallow, strained breath before I have to roll to my side and cough. It's all downhill from there. I jerk; instantly,  _expertly_ , sent into an attack. I can see Bruce turning, coming to meet someone, and I force my vision far enough up to see a red tipped arrow slice through the air where he would have been, and then a knife clash into a gauntleted arm.

_No_ , Jason,  _no_. Run, get  _out_.

My tongue tastes heavily of copper, but I watch Jason move in like some kind of predatory  _animal,_  blue-green eyes narrowed and fixed on Bruce. His foot comes up, Bruce deflects it, and he transitions neatly into a punch with the opposite hand — his left — that slams into Bruce's shoulder. Which would have been a lot more useful, and a lot more damaging, if Bruce wasn't in his suit. As it is it knocks him back and off balance a little, and Jason snarls and slices forward at his throat. It doesn't connect, but Bruce has to take a step back to make sure. A second arrow comes through, glancing off Bruce's side, and Jason doesn't even flinch. He launches another kick at Bruce's side, and then lets his weight fall backwards into a handstand, handspring, and back to his feet as Bruce slices at him again. They're almost matched.

Jason is a little shorter, and doesn't have quite the same build, but they're not that different. It's not like putting me next to either of them, where you can tell that I'm just built for different things. A hand presses down on my shoulder, and I turn my gaze — as I shake and cough — over to where Roy is crouching next to me.

"Fuck, D, now is  _not_  the time." I give a desperate little jerk of my shoulder as he tries to lift me, shaking my head. "What the  _hell_ , D? I'd like you in one piece, you idiot."

"Get,  _Jason_ ," I manage in a wheeze. I don't  _matter_ , I'm dying anyway.

"After  _you_ ," Roy snarls, and then both of us jerk, though Roy completely straightens up with an arrow falling to his bow, as Jason slams into the side of the jet with a heavy crash and a pained shout. "Fuck,  _no_." Roy lets the arrow go at what I assume is Bruce, and then gives a gasping sound of pain. Blood splatters the ground in front of me, that  _isn't_  mine, and Roy folds to his knees, clutching at his side with one hand. His gloves are roughly the same color as the blood, so it's impossible to tell how much of it there is, or how deep the wound is underneath his hand. I don't even know what caused it.

Bruce steps around me and kicks Roy sharply in the chest, laying him out flat on his back, then gives an extra one to the side of his head. Roy's skull snaps to one side, and if a wince would show through the strain of my expression I would do it at the faint crack of bone. He's unconscious or at least totally dazed, hands still over his side but lax instead of holding pressure onto it. If it's deep, that could be bad.

Hah. I'm dying, coughing blood all over the floor and totally  _helpless,_  Bruce is standing over both of us — and maybe Jason, I can only sort of see either of them from this angle — probably about to slit all our throats, or drag Jason and I back to the cave in Gotham for some serious torture, and I'm worried about Roy keeping pressure on the wound in his side. That seems like a low priority thing, honestly.

Bruce turns to me, shoving me onto my back with one foot, and pinning me to the floor by stepping down on my shoulder. I do my best just to breathe and, somehow, it works. The attack eases a bit, and being pinned on my back doesn't just make me choke on my own blood like it really should. I swallow, trying to get together enough coherence to speak, when Bruce leans down towards me. He crouches, and I give a rasping groan at the increase of pressure at my shoulder and collarbone from his foot.

"You were expecting to go up against me with  _this?_ " he asks with a sneer, his right hand lowering to trace claws over my throat. I meet his eyes without fear. What would be the point in fearing death? If he kills me now he saves me months of pain, months of crawling along trying to live just one more day. "A drug addict, a half-trained boy, and a crippled,  _dying_ , killer? I thought you knew better than to underestimate me, Richard."

I can't offer a response, I couldn't drag up the energy or the concentration even if I tried, and I can only try and choke back another round of coughing when his hand closes around my throat and tilts it up, claws pricking into my flesh.

"I'd like to feel you  _die_ ," Bruce says, in a low growl, and his hand tightens around my throat. I choke, my left hand — the arm not pinned under his boot — coming up to drag at the metal of his armor, trying to get a grip on something. It only impacts once, dragging my fingers down his suit, before I remember that something in my wrist is  _broken_ , and trying to grab anything with that hand will be a pointless exercise. I can feel blood trickle down my skin, where Bruce's claws are sinking into the meat of my throat, and I can only choke and gasp.

Suddenly Jason is there, a foot driving past my face and forcing Bruce to let me go, to leap off me and roll backwards. I curl into myself, trembling because I simply can't stop myself, but I hear Jason give a loud snarl.

"Don't you fucking touch him," Jason spits, standing over me with his knife still in one hand. I can see blood on his right arm, and more down the back of his left shoulder, but he doesn't seem to mind or care right at the moment.

Bruce gets back to his feet, and I can see the faint downwards turn of his mouth that means he's actually displeased. That means things are about to get very painful, very fast. Roy stirs with a low groan, and Jason moves. The second I see the strike he chooses, high and carving down at the junction of Bruce's neck and shoulder — where the armor is weaker, to allow for flexibility — I want to shout at him that  _no_ , that's a  _mistake_  and it's going to—

Bruce diverts the strike down, spinning Jason with his own momentum, and in one move grabs both Jason's shoulder and his wrist and jerks downwards. Jason  _screams_  as Bruce's knee slams up into his elbow with a sickening, shattering crack, the knife falling from limp fingers. Bruce's hand releases my replacement's wrist and slips downwards, catching the knife, and then he reaches up with his other hand and gets a handful of Jason's hair,  _yanking_ back to bare his throat.

I have time for a gasped, choked, " _No_ ," before the knife slams upwards into the underside of Jason's jaw. Jason gives a single sputtering noise as it slides in, eyes wide, but almost immediately goes completely limp. Bruce releases him, and Jason crumples to the ground. Complete dead weight.

I stare.

_No_. This is  _not_ how it was supposed to happen.  _I_ was supposed to die, I was  _already_ dying. Jason was supposed to get a chance, be able to go off and live a life at least half free of Bruce's involvement. He wasn't…  _god_ , he wasn't supposed to  _die_.

What happened to torturing Jason, to making him pay for betraying Bruce? This was fast, mostly clean if painful beforehand. This  _isn't right_. Nothing is going the way I thought it would, the way I expected people to behave. Bruce should have been crueler, he should have incapacitated Jason to take him back to the cave, and should have  _killed_ me. What is going  _on_?

Bruce steps over Jason, shoving me onto my back again, and my breath comes fast and shallow.  _Panic_ , my mind supplies, it's  _panic_. My vision tunnels, and Bruce gives a thin smirk. "Interesting when people don't do what you expect them to, isn't it, Richard?" he asks, his words fading out at the end as my consciousness slips from me. "We're going to have some  _fun_ , Talon."


	15. Molting Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, today is the last day of NaNoWriMo, I have many things I have written (85k worth!), and here I am with another update of this. I am as of yet undecided whether or not I will just keep posting this till it's all out, but we'll see. XD See you Friday with who-knows-what!
> 
> Also, this has been one hell of a weekend (whoo! Black Friday working in retail! *weak cheer!*), and you guys' comments kept me going and smiling. Thank you all, you're fantastic and amazing and I love each and every one of you.

I jerk to awareness at a noise I don't immediately recognize, my eyes flicking open as I drag in a sharp breath and stir. The sound ends, and I realize it's a muffled, echoing,  _howl_. Human, not animal, but loud enough to pass for one. I blink, gathering enough of my mind together to recognize the grey, faintly spotted floor as concrete, stained in spots with what I'm pretty sure is blood. That's interesting, but it isn't a configuration I recognize and in the places I  _do_  know that are stained badly enough by blood like this there certainly wouldn't be anyone howling. Not likely, anyway.

I stir, and find my hands secured behind my back by — I shift again, reaching upwards as far as I can manage — a wrap of chains? There's something  _on_  my hands and wrists too, some barrier between me and the chains themselves. Nothing else of mine is secured, but there's an ache in my chest and around my throat that tells me I have bruises. That's not surprising, considering the last thing I remember is—

 _Jason_. Oh  _no_.

I lever myself off one shoulder, getting to my knees with a bit of effort and raising my head to look around. I'm in... I'm in a  _cell_ , and it's a design that I recognize.

I'm in  _Arkham_. Oh, that's not good.

I look down at myself, and my mind stutters to a halt. The black costume is  _easy_ to recognize, though lacking the belt or the armored reinforcement. I'd bet if I was at the right angle to see either my hands or feet, they'd be covered in the red gloves and boots that are the other pieces of this. I'm in the  _Talon_ outfit, in  _Arkham_. Bruce  _rarely_ delivers people to Arkham by himself, he sent me instead. Most of the people in here are only here because of Bruce and me, and  _I_ brought them here.

This costume, stripped of the tools or the actual armor, is just a target.

I stand, rocking to my heels before pushing up, and to my surprise it's  _easy_. There's no tightness in my chest or my throat, no faint taste of blood on the back of my tongue. I feel  _fine_.

There's the heavy clunk of a lock, the faint buzz of electricity disengaging, and I turn towards the door and step back as it opens. Bruce steps inside, still in the armor of Owlman, and the door — at the hand of some orderly I can barely see past the width of Bruce's shoulders — closes behind him. There's the same clunk of a lock, and a whine that I recognize as an electrical security system starting back up. Likely, it's the door that's electrocuted. Extra security since I'm the occupant, and could more than likely pick or disable any lock they put me behind.

Bruce shifts, glancing around the cell. "It's not the worst they have," he says, quietly but firm, and in his own voice. Not the Owl's growl, but the smooth, cool tones that are his normal voice. Not quite 'Bruce Wayne's' cultured tones, but something in between the two.

"I've seen Arkham's cells," I answer, "I know that." He nods, and it's impossible to tell precisely what he's looking at behind the large white eyes of his mask, but it's certainly me. "Why do this?" I ask, referring to Arkham, and  _Jason_. It was supposed to be me, I was supposed to die, Bruce had even stated that he was intending to torture my replacement and make him regret all this. Why would he change that? Why would he do anything else?

"I considered some things," he says, tilting his head a bit to one side. "Jason may have been the more aggressive of the two of you, but  _you_  were the one who made his rebellion possible. You were the first to betray me, and you did so far more successfully than he could ever have planned. Torturing him would have been enjoyable, certainly, but it wasn't necessary in the scheme of things. You, on the other hand, deserve more punishment than a simple death."

He steps closer, circling me, and I stand still. Without weapons, or the use of my hands — my left wrist still aches, but it feels like it's supported by something — I don't stand even half a chance against him, and there would be no point, anyway. The door is locked, I don't know how Bruce was intending to get back out, and even if I managed to get the upper hand briefly, the damage to my lungs would make sure that I couldn't hold it. Both of us know that.

"How do you feel?" he asks, at my back.

"Fine," I answer honestly, turning my head to get him back at the edge of my peripheral vision.

He makes a small, pleased sound, and steps up against my back. One of his gloved hands traces down my side — without the armor supporting it the costume isn't much more than paper — and I fight back a small shudder with the ease of practice. I flex my fingers outwards, but he's standing far enough back that I can't reach the utility belt that would be at about the same height.

Of course, Bruce would know better than to put that in my reach, he knows I'm good enough to make use of it.

"I'm leaving you here," he tells me, stepping away and then around me to be at my front again. It's not a surprise, but it's not a pleasant thought. "I'm leaving you at the mercy of the orderlies, and the other inmates here, and I'm going to watch you die a slow death to your lungs. That should serve as enough, don't you agree?"

"You're asking the wrong person," I point out, glancing briefly around my cell. "The inmates will kill me long before my own injuries will, I'm sure you know that."

"Which is why the guards are being told to make sure that doesn't happen. You die naturally, and they get hefty bonuses into their accounts. You don't, and I go through their families before I decide whether they deserve to die as well." That should be sufficient motivation to keep me alive. Shame. "The same of course applies to any method of suicide you may attempt, or any injuries by any of the orderlies or other guards." He gives a thin smile, one of his nastier ones. "There won't be any kind of rescue either, Richard. Jason and Harper are dead, and we're both aware that with Jason gone, Ra's no longer has a use for you. Even on the  _small_ chance someone does come for you, I will tear them apart before they ever get this far."

It's true. The only person I could consider risking enough to break me out of Arkham might be the Jokester, and the chances that he even knows I'm here aren't high. With Jason dead Ra's doesn't need me to keep him around, and even if I could imagine Roy risking his own safety to get me out, I don't doubt for a moment that he's dead too. He was down last I saw him, and bleeding probably fairly heavily from his side. Even if he could have survived that injury with the concussion he would have had from the kick to his head, Bruce would have killed him while he was down. What reason would there be for him  _not_ to?

Arkham itself is a stronghold, built and then improved specifically to contain anyone Bruce never wanted to see the light of day again. I know the Jokester got out with Harlequin's help, and that he's broken a person or two out since then, but I also know that it nearly cost him his life every time. Breaking into Arkham is  _dangerous_ , and Bruce has made sure it's that way. I'm certainly not worth that kind of risk, even by the Jokester's standards, and there's still the fact that it's unlikely that he even knows I'm here. I'd bet Ra's knows, but unless he shared that information, which is questionable, I doubt anyone else does.

"Kind information to tell me," I comment, meeting his gaze. "Why not keep me in the dark?"

"Why would I allow you to have hope?" he counters, head tilting to the side again in that  _thing_ he does when someone is amusing him. "Here's the most interesting part of all this, though." My stomach clenches in on itself, worried at the sharply,  _viciously,_ amused tone. "The damage to your lungs has been healed. Not entirely, of course, but the progress has been taken back several months. Enough so that a simple beating won't kill you; it would be a shame to have you die so quickly, after all."

 _That's_ why I feel fine. That's why it feels so easy to move, to speak, to  _react_. It's why he considers this enough. With the way I feel, and trapped in Arkham as I am, it will take months more for me to reach the same level of illness as I was at before. Months and  _months_ to die. If I'm lucky, one of the inmates will get a good shot in before any of the guards can stop them, and I'll die quickly. However, the guards here know that Bruce fulfills his promises, and the equal motivators of fear for the lives of their families or their own heads, and the greed of a promised bonus if I die to my lungs, will likely be more than enough to keep them looking after me very carefully.

"You want them to know who I am?" I ask, flexing my hands once more to try and find a weakness in the wrap of chains. I could pick the lock, if I had anything to pick it with, but it's too tight for me to get out of otherwise without one of a long list of things I simply don't have. Despite having my gloves on, they aren't clawed, and they certainly don't have all of the built in weaponry and tools I used to. This isn't the simplicity of slipping out of handcuffs either, Bruce knows better. "Apart from Talon, of course. Even though I'm older, the likelihood of one of them recognizing me as Richard Grayson is fairly high."

Bruce gives a controlled lift of one shoulder, and a small smile. "It doesn't matter. No one here ever leaves and even if they did, who would believe an inmate of Arkham Asylum?  _You're_ dead, Richard, everyone knows that."

"Fair enough." Bruce steps forward, and I resist the ingrained urge to flinch back with the equally ingrained control to  _not_ move away. He retrieves something from inside of the pouches on his utility belt, near the back, and I let my eyes drop to it as he raises it.

My mask. Well, that will certainly drive home the point of who I used to be. I can't help swallowing, but I don't pull away as he presses it into place over my eyes. The moment of firm pressure on the edges, to secure it against my skin, is familiar. I blink beneath it, getting used to the faint haze of white over the world. That's something I haven't had to deal with in a long time. It's not irritating, and it won't impede anything, it will just take a bit to remember precisely how to ignore it. I doubt my mask will be on long enough for it to matter.

Bruce steps back, looking me up and down briefly and then giving a smile that looks predatory. It's the one he gives to people he  _knows_ he has full control over. I'm  _not_ one of them, damn him. "Welcome back to being Talon, Richard," he says in a smoothly pleased tone.

"Dressing me up in the costume doesn't make me yours again,  _Bruce_ ," I answer, and he gives a low chuckle.

"Perhaps. You  _could_ be, if you proved yourself to me." Bruce's head tilts, and I take a moment to remember how to breathe. It would be  _easy_ , wouldn't it? To slip back under Bruce's shadow and let myself become exactly what he wanted me to? I could do it in a heartbeat, and I could do whatever he wanted to prove myself. It would be  _so_ easy. But I still remember what it was like, and I know better than to think Bruce actually means it.

"Kind of you," I say, with a brief inclination of my head, "but we both know you don't mean that. I fooled you once, you'd never trust me to work for you again. What would be the point in discussing what I am or am  _not_ willing to do, when that's a fact?"

Bruce laughs again, a low chuckle and a slightly wider smile that shows just a  _hint_ of teeth. He steps away and half turns, reaching in to press something on his belt with a faint click. "Enjoy your stay, Richard. I'll be watching you."

The door goes through its series of security systems unlocking, and swings open. Again, I can just see the orderly past Bruce's shoulders. He's fairly tall, fairly well built, with pulled back brown hair and dark green eyes. Standard, for Arkham. The guards are the real force here, but the orderlies have to be able to at least try keeping the more dangerous prisoners in line.

Bruce leaves — the orderly steps quickly aside to clear his way — and vanishes down the corridor. The orderly looks at me, face guarded but not blank or cold the way Bruce and I can be.

"Step out, inmate," he orders, and I tilt my head a bit to study him. Basic combat training, probably, but he won't have any weapons or drugs on him, and there are no keys to this section of Arkham's cells. These cells ran off combined voice recognition and hand scanners last I was here, so there's probably no point to taking him down.

I move forward, stepping out of the cell and glancing down the corridor in each direction. Bruce is already gone, but there are two guards at the end of the corridor in front of a heavy, secure looking metal door. They've each got a baton in one hand, but my gaze falls to the belts they have. Keys — nothing that would be of use to me here, but maybe in other areas of the facility — a handheld radio, what looks like a taser, and several syringes in small sheaths that I imagine are probably filled with sedatives. Decent weapons, if I could get my hands on them. I wonder if one of the keys on their rings links up to the chains around my wrists. Probably.

That's good to remember, in case I see an opportunity to escape.

The orderly takes my upper left arm in a firm grip, just shy of bruising, and pushes me down the corridor. The door to my cell stays open. As we approach, both guards step to either side and away from the door, batons coming up in threatening stances. I watch them curiously, and then smother any reaction when I hear a low, distinctive whine. So,  _electrified_  batons. Better weapons than plain, certainly, but more dangerous outside of my hands too.

The orderly shoves me to my knees in front of the door — which, before I go down, I see has a panel input for a pass code, as well as what looks like a facial scanner — and fists a hand in my hair, holding my head angled down as he pushes in whatever the code is. I won't fight this time, better to lull them into a false sense of security than waste all my efforts before I even know the full layout, or security measures. I'll have other chances to see what the pass code is.

I can feel him lean over my shoulder and then there's a beep from the door, and it releases and falls slightly open. The orderly pulls me back to my feet, none too gently, and I take a brief glance at the guards to either side of me before my captor pushes me through the doorway. The door itself opens outward, and I study the room we exit into. It's a large area that looks remarkably like a living room, full of couches, armchairs, and tables. However, most rooms like this don't have padding on the corners of furniture, and most don't have a cement floor.

There are other people scattered throughout the room, roughly fifteen of them, and they unanimously turn towards us or look up as my assigned caretaker pushes me in ahead of him. I can see the instant reactions, the narrowing of eyes and the curl of lips into sneers or snarls. Oh, this is going to be a lot of fun.

While I have the chance, I look around the rest of the room.

There are quite a few other doors on the walls, none of which seem to have any kind of identifying marks to distinguish them from any other door. Against one wall is a clear, plastic shield that — though empty at the moment — is clearly designed to be a cafeteria line. There are several large, empty, metal bins set in the visible counter, what look like heat lamps, and a gap at the bottom that's big enough for a thin tray, but certainly not a normal human arm. A child's maybe, or just a hand, but not anything big enough to make a difference.

Aside from that, there are several guards scattered around the room, near the doors, as well as one beside the cafeteria window. Each is looking at me, and have hands resting on their batons — shoved inside their belts — but none of them have the weapons drawn. So, the aggressive response is all in my honor, I suppose that makes sense. Most of the people in here don't have any kind of combat training, at least not officially, and very few would have any chance against professional security with decent weaponry. It's understandable that they only get worried when I'm around, I'm certainly worth being wary around. In fact, if they were anything but wary I'd be worried that they had some kind of control over me that made sure they didn't  _have_ to be concerned. That's an unpleasant thought. The fact that they've either been warned to be cautious or have chosen to be that way is actually reassuring.

The orderly's hand lets go of me, and I take a look at the people  _in_  the room. There are a few with more impressive musculature — not Bruce, Jason, or Roy's level, but bigger than mine at the moment — but the way they're standing indicates they probably only know the tactics of street brawling, not an actual combat style. Some of the others are in decent shape, from what I can see under the off-white, loose-fitting jumpsuits, but none of them particularly register as a threat. Barring one of them having a homemade weapon — which wouldn't surprise me — or getting help from the guards — which also, unfortunately, wouldn't surprise me — I should be able to handle all of them without a problem. Even without the use of my arms, which it doesn't look like I'm getting back for now.

I can hear the orderly step back, away from me, as the room's occupants rise to meet me.

Instead of waiting for them to come after me I move forwards, taking a sideways route that puts a fair amount of furniture between me and the most heavily concentrated group of them. The one I'm closest to, one of the ones that's not even a little obviously muscled, backtracks as his eyes widen, backing into the couch that he'd been leaning over the back of. His two comrades, on the other side of the couch, head around it, but I don't give them time to group up.

With my arms bound I'm a lot less dangerous — though not anywhere near helpless — and there are a dozen different ways a group of people could take me down without actually needing to be bigger, stronger, or more dangerous than I am. Numbers do play a part in things like this, and there is no way I'm letting them gather enough forces together to take me down the way they clearly want to. I value my own skin too much, and my own health. At least in this place. I am no one's punching bag.

If I beat them one day, they'll think twice about taking me on the next, and so on. It's in my best interest to prove myself dangerous long before my injuries degenerate again, and make me vulnerable that way. If I end up beaten by them this quickly, they won't hesitate to go after me again. For safety's sake, it would be best if I didn't let them land even a single hit, let alone do enough damage to think they had the advantage. It's all about showmanship, and intimidation.

I go for the backtracking man, easily snapping a kick into the center of his chest that topples him back over the couch and onto the floor, crashing into the table. I spare a brief glance at the guards — to see if they'll come after me for attacking first, or at all, which luckily looks unlikely — before moving onto the second, the inmate coming around the left side of the couch. I duck under his wild punch at my head and bring my knee sharply up into his stomach, waiting till he falls before I snap a fairly gentle kick into the side of his head, to keep him down. He's unconscious, sure, but I didn't break anything and he might not even have a concussion when he does wake up. For me, that  _is_ gentle.

I meet the third over his fallen friend, spinning to throw my foot into the underside of his jaw. He goes down like a sack of bricks, completely without a struggle or even the farce of one. Three down, twelve to go, and unfortunately none of these easier ones were the larger, more dangerous ones. Shame, but it doesn't matter in the scheme of things. The only difference is that now they know I'm still dangerous, and they might approach me a little more cautiously than these ones. Granted, that's not necessarily a step up considering the reckless attacks of the two inmates at my feet. It isn't hard to be more cautious than  _them_.

The more heavily muscle bound ones share glances, and I repress the faint wariness in my gut as the leftover inmates form into small groups, heading around furniture to get clearer paths to me. I try and step to one side, to keep a fair number of obstacles between me and them, but the low whine of electricity stops me in my tracks. I glance to the side, seeing one guard standing a bit away from the wall with his baton out and on. I meet his gaze, and he shakes his head with a thin sneer.

Wonderful. So the guards aren't directly interfering, yet, but they're not letting me do things the easier way either. That makes things a bit more difficult, I suppose, but I can make do. Take one group at a time, and watch my back. This is all about agility, and grace. Dodging and single shot takedowns are worth more than straight out combat power right now. I cannot afford to go down with this many people around.

The guards would stop me from being killed, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. There are a lot of things you can do to a person before you kill them, and most of them are exceedingly painful. I'm in no hurry to see how many of my bones break before they get bored, get their fill, or the guards step in to 'protect' me. I also have no interest in seeing how much more damage my already injured wrist can take, or how much combat it might take to make my lungs seize again. I'm healed, true, but not all the way. I don't know precisely where Bruce took me back to, so I also don't know precisely how much I can take or do before things go badly.

Collapsing or spitting blood in front of a bunch of hungry inmates that would very much like to see me pay for their imprisonment would be, well, suicidal is probably a kind word. They'll go for any perceived weakness as surely as I will.

I'd bet the only reason they're daring this now is because my hands and arms are locked behind my back, and I clearly don't have any of my tools. Not everyone will be able to see the lack of armor in my suit, but some might be able to tell the difference and see that it's just me under this suit.

Well, if I can't retreat and ambush the groups, I suppose the next best option is surprise, and superior speed. My reflexes are better, and I have the advantage of not having to worry about any of them in specific. They're just inmates, former thugs at best and more likely just normal people with no particular knowledge, and I'm a living weapon. Even though I'm not what I was, and my muscles aren't at the level they were thanks to my lungs being so badly damaged, I'm still beyond dangerous.

They don't frighten me.

I pick out the weakest group, directly ahead of me and between the other two, and take just a moment to plan my route out past furniture, and my first attack, before rushing at them. It has the most people, but none of the larger inmates in it, and if I take down that many quickly it gives them less of a chance to gang up on me.

After all, no one really expects a man with both hands bound behind his back to make the offensive move. That would be crazy, wouldn't it?

I skirt the edge of a couch, leap to the top of the table beside the group — as they stare at me with wide, startled eyes, only just barely starting to come out of complete shock as I land — and neatly nail the most threatening looking of them in the forehead with my boot. His head snaps back, and he topples over onto two of the others. He's not heavy enough to weigh them down to the ground, but the distraction as they get caught between getting out of the way and instinctively trying to catch their unconscious friend is more than enough time. I jump from the table onto one of the others, bringing my feet up as I jump to drive both knees into his chest. Something cracks beneath my weight as he hits the ground with me on top of him, and he sputters and goes very pale, but I don't pause to make sure I didn't puncture or snap anything too important.

I turn, sweeping one leg out to hook the calves of whoever's close to me, which ends up being two people. They topple, and I roll backwards off my downed, broken-boned inmate and back to my feet. It's a little harder than I'm used to, with the impediment of my arms, but in the end it's just uncomfortable and not actually damaging.

The last two standing people in the group, the two distracted by their unconscious friend, I jump towards before they can regroup. I come in low but directly at them, sliding between the two of them and under their fists as they each swing at me. I slam one foot into the one on my left's calf, hearing the crack of bone and the  _scream_  as he collapses away from me, and I turn to the other and bring my head up sharply, cracking the top of my skull into the bottom of his jaw. It's not enough to knock him out, but it dazes him long enough for me to drive my shoulder into the center of his chest and send him — heaving for air — to the cement floor.

His head impacts against it with a nasty sounding crack, but I doubt it gives him more than a concussion and some blurry vision. I turn on the two inmates whose legs I swept, both starting to rise, and lay one out with a kick to the side of the head before he can even get to his knees. The other tries to scramble away from me, and even though part of me says I should let him back away if he's genuinely afraid, the other part of me insists leaving him conscious and not incapacitated will give him a good shot at my back while I'm busy. I can't afford that kind of a liability.

I go after him, stepping out of the way of a grab at one of my ankles and cleanly breaking his arm with a downwards stomp, in the middle of his forearm. He shrieks, and I half turn to look at the other two groups, of three each. I let my masked gaze slip over them, keeping my half-turned away posture as I move sideways, out of the field of unconscious or injured inmates.

This, I remind myself, was not my fault. I would have preferred to live this out quietly, but it was obvious from the first moment I walked in here that they had no such desires.

It doesn't surprise me that the larger inmates have joined together. The first group, separated from me by two couches around a table, is comprised of two of the heavily musclebound ones, as well as one that looks in pretty good shape. The other group only has a single of the heavier ones, but the other two around him are obviously muscled in a fairly decent way, and one is even standing in a way that implies he knows a little something about martial arts.

Not much, his stance is off — feet too widely set, back hunched, arms in the wrong place; beginner mistakes — but he might be the most dangerous of all of them, even more so than his larger friends. Muscle is only useful if you know how to use it, after all, and even the most heavily built thug is equally susceptible to accurate, pinpoint strikes to important areas. Everyone goes down to a damaged achilles, or a strike up through the nose, equally hard. It isn't that difficult, and weight and muscle only matter if they get close enough to use them, or the person they're attacking isn't good enough to dodge.

I've been fighting Bruce most of my life, and he's at least as big as most of these heavy weights. Easily twice as fast, guaranteed. I know how to counter someone bigger and stronger than I am. I don't usually do it with just my legs, but that's not an impossible hurdle. It shouldn't even be a particularly challenging one considering the low quality of my opponents.

I lean my head to one side, resisting the urge to offer the two groups one of the practiced smiles that still lurk in the back of my head, the vicious curl of lips and gleam of  _teeth_  that's integral as part of the showmanship of Talon. The thought of Bruce watching through the security feeds, which is more than likely, completely kills the impulse.

I am  _not_  his Talon anymore, and even if he's dressed me up in the costume I refuse to play the part for him. I'll defend myself, and I'll strike first where I need to, but I refuse to allow him to drive me back into the simplicity of killing — especially killing those that he's already imprisoned — or the ease of Talon's role. These inmates have legitimate reason to hate me, they  _should_  hate me, and I'm not going to kill them for it. They have every right to try and harm me, as I have every right to take them down to stop them. It's not the best solution, and I doubt it will hold up for very long, but at least it's something.

I glance between the two groups, standing still where I'm half protected by an armchair in front of me. I'm safely clear of the injured or unconscious people, and about midway between the last two groups. I watch them, internally debating which of the two of them is more likely to come at me first. That solves itself when the two share glances, and drift towards each other to form a single whole.

Well, hm. That's not the best thing that could have happened. The six of them together are a much more dangerous force than two separate groups of three, even with the potential for an ambush to my back by one group while I was taking the other one out. Shame that they thought of that, I suppose. Going after them, now that they know I'm willing to run them down even with my obvious disadvantage, is pointless. Without the element of surprise I'm just one man running at a group of six fairly dangerous inmates, and even with my reflexes those odds aren't great. I'm much better off waiting for them to come to me.

I take a glance around the room at the guards, finding them with batons out, but most not apparently on. Ready to attempt stopping me from killing the inmates, or them from killing me, but still not interfering. What is the  _point_ of this?

I'd understand if the guards had drugged me first, or beaten me some beforehand to soften me up for the inmates, but this is just… Well, it's sadly close to feeling sacrificial. Honestly, the chances are good that even if I did just charge straight at this last group I could take them all down with minimal damage. I don't know the layout of Arkham Asylum by memory, but I know that there are  _many_ more inmates than just these fifteen, some of which are actually patients too, and not just the people that Bruce left here. Why not swamp me with all of them at once, why do this small selection first?

I don't even recognize any of them, and they certainly aren't the more dangerous people Bruce has locked here. I know that despite the Jokester's best efforts there are still a few people in here who used to be heroes, or were criminals that displeased Bruce in some way, and I know that some of them were metahumans.  _Those_ are the dangerous prisoners in here, and the ones that are probably locked in a specific, extra-security corner of the Asylum. A corner that by all rights, I should be in as well.

Those metahumans might stand a chance against me — especially if their powers aren't completely negated — since they have some level of actual combat experience. Which brings me back to the question; why even bother throwing me through these ones first? This can't be the guards' idea, it has to be some plan of Bruce's. That almost guaranteed fact worries me a little.

Is it just a test, a basic exercise to evaluate how much of my skill and strength I've retained, and how much I can handle? I suppose that would make sense. If Bruce only wants me in pain, and not dead, he'd have to be careful not to send me up against anyone that could just kill me. My very brief fight with him before… when  _Jason_ … That wasn't a fight. It wouldn't have given Bruce any kind of real gauge of my remaining skill, not when I was so badly weakened.

So is this an exercise, or does he have something nastier in mind? Impossible to know so far. I guess I'll only find out when whatever he wants done has run its course, and ended whatever way he wants it to. Or, when I have more information to go off of. For now, I should just focus on getting through each bit of whatever he has planned, and at the moment that's the six people in front of me.

They're edging closer, around the obstacles between us, unfortunately as a group. If they split up to go around things I might have a better moment to spring an attack. As it is, my best option is still just to get myself in a defensible position and then wait for them to get close enough to try and attack me. Without my arms countering will be harder, but not even Bruce can dodge as well as I can most days. Those are the kind of skills you build being an abusive crime lord's punching bag. Don't get hit, it's that simple.

I learned to avoid the best, I can handle six inmates who probably don't even know how best to work together as a team. Target the weak, exploit openings, take every advantage I possibly can, and prove that I'm a lot more than the target that this suit is supposed to make me.

Two of the heavier inmates share a glance that flicks downward, and in the second it takes me to understand their silent communication they lean down and lift the table. I move, darting to the side and off in a jagged pattern as they throw it towards where I was, and it shatters against the wall with an impressively loud cracking noise.

"Watch it!" one of the guards shouts, sounding pissed, but I don't turn to see which of them it was. Not right now.

The group meets me as I come towards them, and I duck low to avoid the first swing over my head, smacking my shoulder into the attacker's ribs as I pass. It won't take him down, but it'll hurt and probably knock the breath out of him for a few seconds. He spins out of my way, and I narrowly avoid a grab at my other arm from one of the bigger inmates by pulling back sharply into the same one I just stunned. I take the opportunity to step down on that one's heel, driving him to his knees with a pained shout, before I have to jump back to avoid the swing of a large fist.

I take a shallow breath in, taking a fraction of a second to calculate the positions of the remaining five that are standing. I don't know if it's conscious, but they're scattered fairly well. Enough space so they don't hit each other when they attack, but closely grouped enough that it would be very difficult for me to get between them without something going wrong. My only real option is to take small, biting jabs at the outside of the group, and be very, very careful not to get grabbed by any one of them.

Even if I broke free pretty much immediately — which without my arms or hands to injure the offending limbs holding me would be a significantly harder prospect — it would still stall me, it would stop me moving for a moment, and that's a perfect opportunity for one of them to hit me. Maybe it won't be much, maybe I turn the right way and almost all the force gets turned aside, but that would destroy the purpose of this fight. This is  _proving_ that I'm untouchable, proving I am not to be messed with. Getting  _touched_ would really destroy the whole point.

The inmate I downed gets back up, favoring his leg but glaring all the nastier for the obvious pain that he's in. He doesn't look particularly winded, which means the blow I dealt his ribs was more or less superficial. It might ache a little, or be a bit sore, but it's doubtful there will be any kind of lasting impact or any change in the way he behaves. The foot to his heel, on the other hand, I know for a fact was a much more dangerous strike. He won't be able to support all his weight on that leg for at least a few more minutes, which gives me one advantage among the others.

I shift my weight, moving to one side briefly before reversing direction. I'm pacing, another habit that Bruce trained into me as Talon. Being still has its own advantages, but pacing inspires a level of caution in people that isn't matched by much else. It always feels like you can't quite wait to get at them, like a large predator stuck behind a glass wall. There, it can see you, but it hasn't tried to kill you yet.

They're between two couches, the table that had been there in splintered ruins against the wall, and while there's another set behind them it's a ways back. The couches aren't any help, I can tell from here the pillows covering them are too soft to allow for any real kind of force from pushing off, and getting stuck in pillows would not be high on my list of ways to go down. Probably the best advantage they offer is they contain the combat area that's readily available, and if I can knock someone down into one there's always the hard edge of the bottom seats, or arms. It's not the best weapon, but it's something.

"How about you just lay down and let us have you, Talon?" one of the smaller inmates snarls, from half behind one of his larger friends. I tilt my head and give a sharp smile with too many  _teeth_  to be kind before I can stop myself. He flinches back, and I mentally put aside my reservations. Fine, it's too late now. Whatever Bruce really wants out of all this, he can at least have this. I'm not Talon, and I won't kill for him, but I can use my own advantages to make sure they don't get close enough to me to do anything I don't want them to.

Besides, there's no point in holding back now. Bruce is watching, I'm positive, and keeping it back now when he doubtless already saw my one moment without control is completely useless. If he wanted that, he already has it, and denying it any further would only amuse him

"Not really in my interest, is it?" I ask, holding onto that smile that's half just a baring of teeth. Threatening, challenging,  _daring_  anyone to try and take me.

They seem surprised to hear me speak, from the glances they share. Not enough distraction for me to move at them, but enough to communicate. How long have they been in here together that they can communicate so effectively while staying completely silent? Most people don't have those kind of skills, not ones who didn't wear masks anyway. All of us tend to share a small, silent, communication system among ourselves, but usually normal people don't tune into it, and it takes a bit for new members of our community to learn.

I glance at the guards, taking advantage of the fact that the mask covers my eyes to just flick them to the side and not move my head at all. It's a handy tool, being able to look one place while everyone else thinks you're looking somewhere completely different. The guards seem a bit more relaxed then they were before, and the start of a conversation doesn't seem to have fazed them at all. I guess that wasn't in Bruce's list of instructions. Or perhaps, ongoing instructions. The headsets locked into one of each of their ears could easily be what Bruce is using to command them, and have this play out just the way he wants it to.

It's says something rather unpleasant about Arkham Asylum, or Gotham in general, that the idea of a crime lord ordering around a bunch of guards in what's  _supposed_ to be a secure prison is absolutely, completely, plausible. Even worse that he's using them to stage what, by all accounts to me, looks like either a series of sacrificial combat tests or what amounts to an ancient colosseum fight, using the inmates they're supposed to be protecting and watching.

None of the inmates move for me, and I tilt my head and study them, widening my smile just a touch. "I can stand here all day," I point out, provoking to get a reaction and getting exactly what I was looking for almost instantaneously. Violent, probably mostly thoughtless, action.

Granted, I'm lying. I  _can_  stand here all day, but the chance that Bruce would actually allow me to is very slim. It's much more likely that at some point he would instruct the guards to shut me in closer to the inmates, drive me forward and force me into a violent conflict that  _I'd_  have to start. That would not be a good way to do things, so the better option is exactly what I just did. Provoking.

One of the inmates snarls at my tone — challenging, demeaning, and with a touch of boredom; a tone I put together specifically for this kind of mocking — and jumps forward. Another gives a shout that probably has a meaning close to 'no' if he'd actually put thought beyond the instinctive noise, but it isn't nearly fast enough. The attacking inmate swings for me and I slip sideways and lash out with one foot, slamming my boot into his kneecap and knocking his leg out from under him with a nasty crunch. He falls, that foot braces on the ground, and I bring my other knee up to meet his descending face.

He hits the ground to my side, and I refocus my attention on the remaining five — including the one I've already wounded — with a thin smirk. "Next?" I taunt.

It feels… As Jason would have said, it feels  _bad_. I feel  _wrong_  falling back on my Talon training like this, like I'm betraying everything I've done in the last five and a half years by stepping back into the role that I took so much effort breaking out of. It stings that this — the dangerous, calculated front of a weapon built to kill — is probably the only way I'll survive whatever Bruce has planned for me. Luckily, that seems to be enough of it.

The inmates surge forward, and I let my smirk and attitude drop away as I meet them. I move sideways, keeping one of the bigger ones in between me and the rest, and move forward to meet him head on. He's just charging, without any apparent plan, and I brace and extend my leg out, letting it slam into his stomach with the combined force of my kick and his forward charge. He collapses backwards, not unconscious but at least winded for a few minutes. I don't have the time to completely take him out, that will have to do until later.

I spin low, executing another leg sweep, but the two inmates close enough to be affected both jump back to avoid it. They jump back into the ones behind them, so it's not a totally wasted movement, but they all recover and separate before I'm fully up again. The winded one at my feet is one of the heavier ones, so there's only two of those left and three fairly normal, but unfortunately that includes the normal one who had some faint knowledge of martial arts. He isn't the one I injured first, either.

I move to the one on the far left, skirting relatively wide — just out of range of his arms, but not far enough that he can take a safe step forward — to once again put the bigger inmate between me and the others. He bares teeth at me, eyes wide and somewhat fevered — a potent combination of adrenaline, fear, and anger — and kicks out at me. It's not fast, and if I had my hands I could easily have caught and punished the attack, but as it is I have to settle for slipping closer in the opening, brushing my side against his leg as I close the distance between us.

I snap my teeth up at his throat — he gives the appropriately human response of recoiling backwards, even though I'm not nearly close enough to connect — and then throw my shoulder into his chest. He staggers, and I press my advantage. The bigger ones I have to keep off balance, distracted, or risk a grab that could prove very painful. That in mind, I go for the easy, cheap shot now that he's trying to balance out and at a better angle for it.

I bring my knee sharply up into his crotch.

He goes pale, hands automatically dropping to cradle the soon to be badly bruised area, and collapses to his knees with a high pitched whine that I'm vaguely impressed a man as big as him can even make. I don't wait for him to regain his bearings, bringing one foot up to brace on his shoulder and pushing off it, simultaneously driving him into the ground and giving myself a touch of momentum to go after the next inmate. There's two that are equidistant this time, the injured one and the normal, smaller one, and I go after the one not favoring his leg.

That may be a touch harder, but it's better. Take down the one that poses more threat first, deal with the easier ones later. A limping man is much less threatening than one who  _isn't_ limping, after all. Very, very basic rules of combat. If you can pick off the weaker ones first without the risk of being attacked or hit by the stronger, that's wonderful, but if that risk is present it's best to go after the more dangerous ones first.

I keep my momentum, veering slightly left for the uninjured one, and he holds his ground and faces me. It's only a space of about seven feet between us, and I come in low, aiming a kick up at his jaw. He jerks away from it, bending backwards to avoid the strike, and I straighten up into his personal space, skidding my shoulder along his front as I come up. It's enough to push him the rest of the way off balance, and get him to topple over with a surprised shout. I turn towards the injured one — who has wide eyes and is more than close enough to be in range — and snap a kick at the side of his closer knee as the inmate in front of me falls. It impacts, he gives a shout of pain at the same time as my falling inmate hits the floor, and I spin my other leg at the side of his head.

He collapses sideways, and I turn back to the downed one next to me, sliding my gaze past the two left standing, roughly ten feet away, to focus on him. I slam my boot down on his arm before he can recover enough to have the presence of mind to try and get away from me and then throw a boot into the side of his head in a move that even to me, feels a bit like mercy.

In the brief breather I look around, taking stock of my surroundings.

There are two inmates left standing, the last of the more heavily muscled ones as well as the smaller one that might know martial arts, and the other two bigger ones are down, but not unconscious. Both are likely to recover fairly quickly. The one behind me is curled into the floor, still clutching his crotch and making small, pitiful noises. The first one I took down is starting to look like he might try getting up soon, a hand to his stomach and the other braced against the floor. Both of the normal ones that I just took down, however, are firmly out.

I move for the wounded one behind me first. Partially because he'll be easiest to take out before he gets back up, and secondly because it gives me a little extra space between me and the others. One less of the heavily muscled ones is always good, and I can do it with absolutely no risk to myself. There's no downside to taking him down, at this point neither of the two — technically three — that are left will be surprised by me going at them, and since they're forewarned it's less likely they'll go down as relatively easy as these ones did. Better to make them think, stop them from assuming that I'm all aggression.

I back up beside the injured heavier one and throw an easy kick to his head, being careful not to hit him too hard, or at the weaker parts of the skull. I'm only looking to knock him out, not kill him. I will  _not_  kill for Bruce again, that is one line I will hold until my dying breath.

The wounded inmate goes limp, and I take another glance at the other downed, muscled one.

He's starting to rise, though haltingly and without too much success just yet, and I take a moment calculating the distance between him and the two that are standing. I can probably take him down before he gets up, and before the other two can try and stop me.

I go for it, leaping forward. My pattern is jagged by necessity — I don't mind stepping on other people, but they'd make my footing less stable — but it works to my advantage. It makes my intended target unclear, and by the time the two standing ones realize I'm going after their wounded friend it's too late for them to intercept me in time. I come to a sharp stop, throwing my momentum into a kick that slams into the side of his head, and he slumps back to the ground with a heavy thud.

My gaze turns to the last two, and after a fraction of a second's consideration, I head for them. Not in a leap, or a run, but slowly. Edging closer and circling, taking my approach one step at a time and acting more like a stalking predator than an attacking one. They turn with me, and move with me as well. So, they learned. They're not going to let me get them at an angle where one is behind the other, they're going to try facing me as a team. Smarter of them, mildly unfortunate for my tactical advantage.

I'm vastly better trained, skilled, and experienced, but with my arms tied and with there being two of them, my advantage isn't nearly as high as by all rights it should be. Honestly, with my arms loose, I could have taken on this entire room in just a few minutes, and all at the same time. I would have torn them to pieces, easily. I probably could have taken the guards too, though it's unlikely I would have without a good reason.

I've fought while restrained before, but not for a very long time. Mostly those lessons were just to ensure that I  _could_ , if I needed to, and then they were never visited again. After all, who was realistically going to capture and tie me up?

The heroes wouldn't have any reason to, really. In fact, I was never quite sure what heroes would ever do with a captured, masked, criminal. Maybe find out our identity, but apart from that it doesn't seem like there's much that they even  _could_  do, let alone would. Killing us would go against their morals, as would most of the ways that they could force us to give up information. Also, it wouldn't be true for most criminals, or even most of the masked, criminal community, but there's no prison in the world that could have held me, or would have  _dared_  to try it. Not with Bruce looming over their shoulders with blackmail material, or threatening to break me back out at the slightest weakness. And that was assuming I didn't break out myself. No government would have dared crossing Bruce by imprisoning me. Or by killing me, for that matter.

The same holds true for the 'villains.' Pretty much any other masked criminal would never have dared imprisoning me without Bruce's approval, not with how much damage he could do to any one of them. Really, the only people that would have had any use for me, tied up, would be gangs. A gang wouldn't have the same individual fear of Owlman as a single hero or villain, and a gang would, collectively, be more interested in Owlman's identity, or mine, as well as the likelihood that they would have wanted to hurt me simply because of who I was. They could have tortured me, or publicly killed me in the way that the Jokester supposedly did, or simply have held me and tried for some kind of ransom from Bruce. Of course, it would have required a special kind of stupidity to try  _ransoming_  me to Bruce.

Anyone who tried something that immensely  _stupid_ really would have deserved whatever ended up happening to them. Either Bruce taking them apart piece by piece, or me breaking free and doing the same.

The two inmates share a glance, and I  _move_  before their gaze focuses fully back on me. There's only about ten feet separating the three of us, and I dart towards the bigger inmate first. They meet me, teeth bared in instinctive savagery and arms raised in something between defense and offense. The bigger one has clenched fists and, to my displeasure, the smaller one has open palms. Shame, he might actually know how to use them. Of course, he won't be nearly at my level of skill.

I slide sideways as the smaller one steps forward, getting the heavily muscled inmate as far between us as I can — though since they're forewarned, it's only perhaps half of a blocked view — and ducking under the large arm that swings for my head. I have to step back as the heavy inmate grabs at me with his other hand as well, but I immediately move in again, keeping a cautious eye on the smaller one out of my peripheral vision.

I try for a snapped kick to the large one's chest, and then thank my instinctive choices that it was snapped, and not normal, as he grabs for my leg. I pull back in plenty of time, and aim my other foot low at his calf. That one impacts, but instead of my strike knocking it out from under him he just lets it slide back with a small grunt of pain. A foot aimed at my head by the smaller inmate makes me pull away, off to the side, and I duck low to avoid another swipe of the arm that I'm moving towards.

Fortunately, most people of Bruce's size, like this inmate, don't move nearly as fast as he does, so I manage to get behind the heavily muscled inmate with a few choice movements. I give a miniature jump to bring my full weight down on the back of his knee, jamming my own knee into the vulnerable joint as I come down. That slams him sharply to the ground, with a shout of pain, and I gather for a moment before I slam my boot into his back. Not center, I don't want to break his spine, but a bit off to the right. More than enough to stun him, and wind him, but not badly injure him. He hits the ground  _hard_ , and I turn all of my attention to the last inmate.

His jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes are more panic than anger, but despite a faint tremble in his hands he isn't backing down. He has courage, at least. Blind, stupid courage, unless the inmates got some kind of threat to force them to keep fighting that I'm unaware of, but it's courage all the same. Shame that he aimed it at someone like me.

I shift, and he flinches.

"You back off," I offer softly, probably not loudly enough to carry to anyone but me and him, "and I won't have to hurt you." It's not a kind offer, I don't bother softening my normal smooth tone, but I don't turn it into a threat either. It's just an offer.

" _Fuck_  you," he nearly shouts, and jumps at me.

I turn, using the same move as I did on the very first one of this group, extending my leg to catch him in the center of the chest as he comes at me with his full weight. It's almost disappointing how fast he crumples. Either the shock, or the impact of his head against the floor, is enough to knock him out, too.

I raise my gaze to the rest of the room, taking in the shattered table against the wall, and the collection of either unconscious or fairly badly injured inmates on the floor. From there, I let it flick up to the guards. They're watching me, and then almost as one three of them move forward from around the room. As if someone was telling them what to do.

It's almost sad how completely unsurprised I am.

I let them surround me, not offering any resistance or fight as their batons whine with electricity, and one gives a sharp gesture towards a stretch of blank wall. I follow the silent order, backing towards the wall but refusing to turn my back on any of the three guards.

Could I take them like this? Maybe. It depends how well trained they are, what's in the syringes they carry, how powerful their tasers and batons are, and finally, if any of the keys they carry are a match to the chains holding my wrists. For now, it's best not to chance any of that. I'll have other chances to escape, and honestly, attempting an escape while I'm almost completely certain Bruce is watching would be, well… He's not going to kill me, so suicidal probably isn't the right term.

My back hits the wall, and I fight the urge to pull away from the batons that level at my chest. I can see that the guards are tense, these three especially, and one reaches into her belt and retrieves one of the syringes. I eye it, debating my chances of how many I could take down before one of them managed to take me down — the idea of being drugged does  _not_  sit well with me, not in here — but all she does is hold it at the ready and aim a nod at one of the other guards around the room.

If I didn't know that Bruce had planned all this, I might doubt that the syringe holds enough of whatever it is to incapacitate me, but since I know better it's likely that Bruce gave them a high enough dosage to actually work against my resistances. That's an advantage that it stings to lose. Most people don't know how resistant I am to most chemicals, and that's an easy way to gain a step up against a regular opponent. If someone expects something to make you complacent, or take you down, it's easy to surprise them when it  _doesn't_.

The guards move efficiently, collecting the fallen inmates and carting them off through a door to my left that they prop open. I can't see beyond it, it's at the wrong angle and the door is opened towards me. The not-quite-unconscious inmates get put out with a quick buzz of electricity, and dragged off with the others. I follow the operation from behind my mask, flexing my fingers against the wall.

When the room is clear again they retake their spots, and one closes the door that they took the injured inmates through and opens a completely different one. After a few moments, and a shout that I can't quite distinguish, there comes a line of more inmates. These ones are  _all_  muscled at least fairly well, and they look, as a whole, nastier.

The first one to see me nudges the next one in line, subtly pointing, and within about five seconds every inmate coming in focuses in on me almost instantly.

"You're  _dead_ , Talon!" one shouts, and I follow the paths of the guards as the last of the...  _fifteen_  inmates comes in, and the door gets shut again. The ones holding me back off, sliding back to positions around the room, and the inmates share wary glances — first at each other, than at the guards — before they start cracking knuckles and grinning.

Oh,  _joy_. Gladiatorial combat it is.


	16. Dewinged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, I am in the middle of sorting out what I've written of Stray!verse into real chapters, and I have written a couple of delicious porn pieces in the meantime which I just have to name before they're ready to get posted up. (I got some JayRoy, some TimKon, and some JayDami for you guys.) So I'm going to post as much of this as I've got written, and I actually know just what happens next so as soon as I finish this piece I'm working on right now I'll probably jump forward and write that bit next. Enjoy!

I didn't think that a cell could ever feel like safety.

I lean against the wall, breathing shallowly through my mouth as I roll my shoulders as best I can while my arms are still chained together at my low back. My ribs ache from two lucky blows — one foot to the upper left side, and a fist to the lower left — and my right shoulder burns a bit where someone wrenched me to a stop, but the worst pain is the fairly sharp ache that stems from my broken nose. I wasn't expecting to get yanked to a stop, so the punch I was supposed to be in the middle of ducking away from impacted pretty squarely with my face.

I can still breathe through it, if I try hard enough, and it only makes me feel a bit like I'm back to choking on my own blood.

The second fight was unpleasant, the third is what earned me these. I was starting to think that Bruce's plan was just to run me through every inmate in Arkham, from least dangerous to most, which would have meant I'd be going up against the ex-heroes and former masked criminals after I'd already had to go through everyone else. Honestly? I'm not so sure that I wouldn't have gotten soundly beaten down. In fact, since my arms are still tied, I'm fairly convinced that if I'd had to keep going I would have gone down within the next couple fights.

Luckily, it looks like Bruce only wanted to see how far in I got before taking a hit. Or at least, that's for now. Maybe I'm just back in my cell so they can treat the injured, clean up the break/lounge room, and clean me up a bit before they send me back out there.

I might last a few more rounds. I'm breathing a little harder than I should be, and I've definitely worked up a small sweat, but I'm not sore, and I'm not tired yet. I could go for more, if I had to. The question of whether the lack of my arms would get me killed, though… That's harder to answer. Without seeing the next group, I can't know.

I flick my eyes open as the door to my cell disengages and then swings open, and I straighten off the wall as an orderly enters. He's a little older than me, maybe mid-twenties, with short blond hair and dark brown eyes, and he's carrying a small platter of what looks like food — my stomach clenches down on nothing, reminding me that the last time I ate is a questionable piece of information — as well as a paper cup of water. In the other hand, he has a small box that I'm pretty sure is a medical kit of some sort. The door closes behind him, and we watch each other for a moment.

My trained behaviors click into play, and I tilt my head a bit as I flick my gaze from him, to the food, and then to the medical kit. This is Bruce's playground, so what will I have to do to earn a meal, or earn the privilege of being patched up? Those things are never free, not when it comes to Bruce. There are some things that I'd certainly be willing to do for either, but there's also definitely a list of things that I wouldn't. I may not be in the best of situations, but I'm not desperate. Yet.

The orderly nods at the bed, against the back wall in the roughly ten by ten foot room. "Sit down, please."

I rake my gaze up and down the orderly, finding absolutely no weapons and judging him certainly not impressive enough to take me down, even with my current disadvantages. "Why?" I ask.

He gives me a look that's eerily similar to some of Roy's. Specifically, the 'you're behaving like an idiot' look. "Food," he says simply, wobbling the platter at me, "and some basic medical." He shakes the kit. "Sit down."

I watch him for another second before backing up until I hit the edge of the bed, completely unwilling to turn my back on him. Apparently harmless or not, Bruce runs this place. The orderly is one of my captors, and therefore not to be trusted in the slightest. He works in Arkham, which means he's corrupted, probably fairly mean spirited, and willing to treat other humans like things more than people. Even before this, I knew how Arkham Asylum was run.

I sit, cautiously but eased by the fact that actually, sitting gives me the best range and power behind my only available weapon, my legs. It's a better position for me.

The orderly moves forward, leaning down to set the platter of food next to me on the bed — little more than a slab of metal covered by an inch thick 'mattress' and two thin sheets — as well as the medical kit. He flips the box open, reaching in for what looks like, as far as I can tell, a small dispenser of sanitizing wipes. Once he's pulled one of the wipes free from the box he meets my eyes. Or at least, he looks at my mask. He reaches towards my face with the wipe, pausing for a moment to give me time to pull away if I want to — which though I do, I choose not to — before swiping it across the left side of my jaw. It comes away stained red.

Right. Broken nose, probably quite a bit of blood. I knew that I was bleeding, I could taste some of the blood on my tongue so it must have gotten at least that far down, but I'd kind of forgotten that it had happened. Pain becomes its own sensation, and it blanks out any kind of otherwise important feelings. Blood isn't important, it's the wound that's important. The broken nose was painful but inconsequential, therefore, so was the blood.

He wipes it over a separate section of my face, and it gets significantly more red. I can see his jaw set down a bit, and I study him instead of focusing on precisely what he's doing.

He looks displeased, almost angry, but it doesn't seem to be aimed specifically at me. He doesn't seem to be looking at me so much as at the blood on me, and whatever it is he doesn't like I'm pretty sure it isn't me. He's tense, and his movements are a touch jerky, a little too stiff for someone theoretically well trained in basic first aid skills. Eventually he tosses aside the used wipe, and reaches for a second one. He stops before reaching forward, and seems to refocus on me as a person. He pauses, and I tilt my head as he just stares at me. Finally his hand lowers, and he gives a small nod.

"Talon is smaller," he comments. I blink, not that he can see it behind my mask, and he gives another nod. He reaches forward again with the new wipe, starting on the opposite side of my face. He doesn't say anything else, and I keep quiet until he pulls the second wipe away from me, nearly as bloody as the first.

"What do you mean?" I ask, quietly, with a small glance up to the corner of my cell, to the left of the door. I know there's a camera in that corner. Is Bruce watching this? Maybe. Hard to say. He  _does_ have a life outside of punishing me, and even with me in his custody there must be other things he needs to run, other operations he needs to keep control of. Gotham, for one. Just because I'm in here doesn't mean Gotham's heroes have gone quiet.

He starts a little bit when I speak, eyes flickering wide for a moment before his mouth curls into a tiny, pleased smile. Which, I think, is a bit of an overreaction to my faintly nasally, stuffed-nose voice.

"Well, you've got the looks, and the costume, but you're too big. Talon's always a kid." He shrugs and leans forward with a third wipe, swiping down under my chin to where the black costume starts.

"You don't think I'm Talon?" I watch him as he visibly bites into the inside of his cheek, and shakes his head.

"No, that's not—" He makes a small sound of frustration, and pulls back to look down at me. "You're  _obviously_ Talon. I mean, the way you move, the way you fight, yeah, you match up. But you're too old to be a new one, and your face isn't the right shape to be the second one." He gives another shake of his head, raising his free hand to rub over his eyes. " _Christ_ , if I didn't know better I'd say you were the first Talon. But I watched him  _die_ ;  _everyone_ watched him die."

I study him for a second before fixing his statement. "You saw him dead," I correct quietly.

His eyes focus instantly on me, and his hand drops. He stares at me for a long few seconds, then finally speaks. " _Are_  you the first Talon?" he asks, doubtfully but with a note to his voice that almost sounds like hope.

I tilt my head a bit, glancing up at the location of the camera again. Is there sound on it? I honestly don't know. If there is, Bruce is linked into it, and if not, he almost certainly has the cell bugged. When I have the chance, and if they ever let me use my arms again, I should check the cell to see if I can find anything.

"That's dangerous information," I settle on saying, refocusing on the orderly.

"I'm in Arkham Asylum," he points out. "Anything I know stays here, or everyone I know ends up dead or worse. That was the  _recruitment_  speech."

He has a point. There are probably quite a few things that the staff here knows that might harm Bruce's reputation if they were released to the public. It's probably some kind of prerequisite to work here that you're either a serious, psychopathic mercenary, or you have enough of a family that you can be blackmailed. What are the chances that Bruce is going to kill this orderly for learning just one more thing? Even if it is something as questionably important as the fact that I never died?

On top of that, is there a reason that I should actually care what happens to this orderly? As he said, he works in Arkham Asylum, and that's not exactly a recommendation that his life should continue. I imagine even heroes would hesitate to save someone who works in this place, so if Bruce does decide to kill him for being nosier than he should have been, why should I care?

No, probably not. It would be one less staff member for me to worry about having to bypass, or defeat, and one more small thing that Bruce will have to fix. Clearly, Roy and— Roy and  _Jason_  influenced my behavior somewhat. I shouldn't have even had to consider if the orderly should mean anything to me, and I certainly shouldn't have decided based on the fact that it will make things more difficult for Bruce, even slightly.

"Yes," I answer the orderly, "I am."

He sucks in a sharp breath, staring at me. "Really, seriously? You're the first Talon?"

"Was," I correct, and he just stares down at me. Well, at least it's a quieter reaction than Roy's, when he found out I was alive. Granted, Roy was suffering withdrawal at the time, and skirting the edge of going mad, so his laughter and the complete shutdown of his mind wasn't entirely unprecedented.

"Were you on some kind of undercover mission for Owlman?" he asks, and then takes a brief glance up and down my frame. "That went wrong?" he finishes.

I suppose that's not too terrible of a first assumption. Bruce, after all, is generally considered to be totally impossible to outsmart. That's common, fairly public, knowledge. Owlman knows everything, and fooling him is impossible. It's not too large of a leap to assume that my death was purposefully faked — though where this orderly thinks the Jokester comes in, I don't know — so Bruce could send me off on some kind of much quieter mission. To work for him somewhere else, do something that Talon couldn't publicly do. And then, to continue that assumption into that I screwed it up somehow, and this is my punishment for it.

No, it's not too ridiculous of an assumption.

"I faked my own death." He gives me a disbelieving look, and I flash a thin smirk. "Do you think that Owlman would have allowed such a large, public scandal — like the Jokester murdering me — if he had the option to simply make me vanish?"

'That's—" He bites his bottom lip, eyes narrowing at me and obviously considering, thinking it through. "Why would you do that?"

I resist the purely  _Jason_  inspired urge to give him one of those scathing  _looks_  that my dead ally always handed out when he thought others were being idiots. Instead, I lift the shoulder that doesn't burn in a small shrug. "Somehow," I say, with a small edge of sarcasm that he probably doesn't pick up on, "going into hiding as a free man seemed like a better option than continuing to be Owlman's personal punching bag."

The orderly blinks, eyes widening, mouth falling just a little open. Like he hadn't even  _considered_  that was a possibility before I said it to him. No, I suppose most people wouldn't have thought about the possibility that Bruce might not have been the best person to work for, or under. I would guess that most regular people would assume that the injuries I had as Talon were my own fault, from gangs or heroes, especially what few were actually visible outside of my uniform.

"I… That's not just rumor?" He sounds a bit disgusted, maybe even shocked, and I raise an eyebrow. He won't be able to see it under the mask, but maybe something of it will come through.

Did he really expect anything different from Owlman?

"You work in Arkham Asylum," I point out, tilting my head a bit the opposite direction and narrowing my eyes. "Of all people, you should know what Owlman is like when he wants something done, especially outside the public eye.  _You're_  being threatened with the safety of your family, above even your own life, and you're surprised that the conditioning of a living weapon is a painful, abusive process?"

He swallows again, and I see his weight shift as he drags his gaze away, like he wants to step back. He doesn't. "I guess— Christ, I don't know what I thought." He takes in a deep breath, and shakes his head. "No, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It was bad then?"

"I chose a lifetime of hiding from the most observant man in the world, over continuing to be Talon," I answer, not bothering to spell it out for him. He gives a single, sharp nod after a moment.

"Yeah, alright, that says a lot." The orderly almost interests me. He seems to be coping remarkably well, though I suppose that's another thing you have to have in a prison like Arkham Asylum. The ability to compartmentalize, and to be able to throw aside any kind of shock, or confusion, to do your job. "So, what, you've been hiding for the last six years? And he just found you now?"

"More or less," I answer, taking a glance down at the medical kit and the platter of food. There's nothing on the platter that looks particularly appetizing, apart from the water — though I don't think it would be a good idea to trust anything they give me to not be drugged — but it is food, and I will need that eventually to stay— Well, not strong, but perhaps less weak. If today was any kind of indication of how my stay is going to be, I'll need to be at least a little bit careful to eat when I can.

The medical kit, unfortunately, looks like it's only full of basic supplies. Not even basic in my sense of the word, but truly basic. Rolls of bandages, small pads to be applied over cuts, small bottles of alcohol for disinfecting, and medical tape. Nothing that I could use as a weapon, not really. I suppose if I got my hands free I could unravel the bandages and use them to tie others up as well as, maybe, strangle people with them, but really at that point it would be easier to just use my own skills to kill people. I could kill people faster with my bare hands than using a weapon as ineffective as that.

The orderly leans back down, taking the wipe back to my skin with a small, shaking breath. "Do you know what happened to the second Talon?" he asks.

It's a shame that he's looking down at my throat, where he's wiping blood from me, when he asks the question, because it means that he undoubtedly sees me swallow, if he doesn't feel it under his hand. He looks up to meet my gaze, a questioning expression on his face.

"He's dead," I answer shortly.

The orderly looks like he wants to ask more, but he only nods and returns to his work. The silence stings against my senses, as does the touch to my throat, and I fight the urge to tense, to grit my teeth, to give some kind of external sign of the biting hollow in my chest.

God,  _Jason._

I thought he was going to be alright, I really did. Then Bruce shows up, and in the span of two or three minutes I'm down, Roy is unconscious and badly injured, and Jason takes his own knife through his throat and into his skull. We weren't anywhere near ready, it was a stupid move to take and honestly, we should have been a lot more careful. We should have contacted Ra's, gotten him to help ferry us home with a real escort, or his private transportation. Or at least, gotten him to stage a distraction so we'd have an open time slot to work without the possibility of Bruce showing up.

We were arrogant.

We've all paid for it now, and if anyone questions I'll claim the responsibility for their deaths. I wasn't the oldest of the three of us, Roy was, but I had the most practical experience. Taking such a daring, crazy move was stupid, and I should have considered the idea that Bruce would have all his own security, and that he could intercept us. I don't know why I  _didn't_. Not just the plane, but everything. I knew Bruce kept an eye on almost everything that Queen did, why didn't I stop to consider that even if Roy guided us perfectly through his ex-mentor's security, there was still all of Bruce's to consider?

I should have known. I should have shut Roy's plan down, and I should have flung them both in the plane the second I had the chance. Damn the supplies, and  _damn_  Jason's refusal to leave me. It was  _never_ about me.

"Did you know him?"

I flinch, just slightly, and my eyes snap up to meet the orderly's gaze. "Yes," I answer, after a few moments.

He gives another slow nod, and throws the third wipe to the side, to join its other two bloody companions. "He disappeared almost a year and a half ago," he says quietly. "Did he die then, or?" I bite down on my own tongue for a moment and consider the orderly, who backs off half a step at my look. "I'm just asking, you don't have to— Sorry. I'm just curious, that's all. The timelines don't add up, and no one knows  _anything_  about Owlman or the Talons. It's probably kinda suicidal that I'm asking, isn't it?" He looks a little pained, unsure, maybe even a bit frightened, but he isn't running for the door and that's probably good enough.

"A bit," I agree. I can't bring myself to offer him a small curl of a smile, but I dredge up a slow nod. "The Jokester and I rescued the second Talon from Owlman at the time you're thinking of, he was with me after that. We were found recently, he was killed, and I'm here until I die."

"To the other inmates?" he asks, with a wince.

So, he wasn't given the same orders as the guards. That's good to know. I wonder if it's just him, or if the orders to keep me alive are strictly limited to the guards and none of the orderlies know. On one hand, limiting the information is more secure, less of a chance of it leaking to the other prisoners here, but on the other, the more people watching me the more likely I'll survive.

"Unlikely," I say, with a small shake of my head. It probably isn't a good idea to tell anyone that I'm dying, either. "He'll finish me when he's through with me," I lie, easily.

The orderly nods, and his eyes flick over my face. "May I remove your mask?" he asks. "The rest of it's crusted around the edges, and I can't set your nose without taking it off either. I wasn't… No one told me not to, so I think it should be alright?"

Apparently, this is the rule of this prison. What happens in Arkham, whatever you may learn, stays in Arkham.

"It doesn't matter to me," I answer, granting him some kind of permission. He reaches forward, and I turn my face to one side as his blunt nails curl at the edge of my mask. He gets it, after a moment, and I can hear him take in a preparatory inhalation before he pulls it from my face. Slowly, cautious likely out of a desire to not aggravate the ache of my broken nose by just ripping it from my face. Distantly, I appreciate that.

It comes off, the world bright again now that the faint haze of white from my mask is gone, and I blink a couple of times to get used to the unimpeded vision again, as I look up at him.

"I shouldn't even be surprised," he comments with a hint of incredulity, setting the mask aside by the medical kit as he retrieves another wipe. "Sure, Talon never died  _and_  he's Richard Grayson. Alright, no, I guess that's just something I should have expected."

He cleans off the mask first, then sets to work on the edges where my mask presses in, where blood likely slid barely under and dried there. I smother the wince as he — exceedingly gently — cleans it away from my nose itself, and then goes down to my throat, peeling the edge of the costume away from my neck to swipe inside of it.

"There's some soaked into your costume," he comments, "but I can't fix that. I guess, maybe they'll give you something else to wear?"

"A new copy," I guess, "when Owlman believes I can be safely drugged and swapped to it. Or I'm in no condition to fight him."

The orderly winces, tossing the wipe to the bed, and his gaze focuses in on my nose. "I don't think you should have fought them," he says, and I blink and narrow my eyes slightly.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. Not fought who? Bruce, heroes, gangs, the other inmates? I've never precisely had a choice about fighting, I'm not self-sacrificial enough to let anyone else beat me to avoid a real fight. I'm certainly not suicidal enough to do that, either.

"The other prisoners," he explains, reaching forward to gently, but firmly, prod at my nose. I hold back any outward show of pain, letting him do it. "Everyone's heard now, even all the ones that we kept in their cells today. All of Arkham Asylum knows that Talon is in here, being set up against prisoners, and everyone knows that you were restrained, stripped of all your weapons, and that you took out a few groups on your own. I don't think you should have fought them, when they came after you."

I study him, only clenching my teeth for a moment as he quickly, efficiently, sets the cartilage in my nose with a grinding, sickening shift and crack that I can feel all the way to the back of my skull. I will never get used to that feeling. He grabs another one of the wipes, holding it up to my nose, and gently pulls my head forward a bit to angle me downwards. At least he knows that much.

It may be instinctive to tilt your head back to stop a nosebleed — after all, the blood is flowing down and tilting up should stop that — but it's more dangerous that way. That forces the blood back down instead, and it's possible to choke on it. I've had just about enough of choking on my own blood. Better to wait for the blood to dry and stop on its own.

"Why not?" I ask, closing my eyes for a moment.

"Well," he says softly, "now everyone knows you're really Talon. No one moves like you do, not even the other Talon did, and what you did out there was pretty ridiculously impressive. If you'd just let them at you, you could have pretended to just be some random person that Owlman hated enough to put inside a Talon costume. It's too late to do that now, though. Now they really are going to come after you, and they'll have had time to plan now."

That actually isn't too bad of an idea. It's a shame that I can't fall back on it now; it really is too late to revert to it. I can pretend, I'm a good actor most days, and there probably wouldn't have been much that Bruce could have done. Everyone in here, at the least, would know that Owlman is rather prone to lying about why people are imprisoned.

" _Why_  you're in here won't circulate as easily, even though everyone is wondering. Half of them are convinced this is some kind of training drill for a new Talon, the others that you're the second Talon, and this is some kind of punishment."

I breathe shallowly through my mouth, flexing my hands behind my back and looking up at him. "Do you know what tomorrow will be?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"No idea; as far as I know we're all just running off of updates right now. We don't know any kind of a plan." He sighs, pulls the wipe back to check the blood flow, and dabs it around my nose before pulling it away. "For what it's worth, I hope they unchain your wrists. The ones you fought today—"

"Are the dregs," I finish, as he gathers up the bloody wipes and puts them into a small, previously empty compartment in the medical kit. "I know."

He nods, and takes a look up and down my frame. "I didn't see anything else obvious, and I'm not allowed to touch anything under your suit unless it's pretty bad. Is there anything else?"

"No," I answer, and he nods and shuts the medical kit.

"Alright, food it is then." He gives me a thin, pained smile, and shrugs. "Yes, it is drugged, but I'd recommend eating it anyway. If you don't, I honestly don't know what they'll do. We force feed inmates that refuse to eat, but with you… It could be worse. Whatever we get told to do."

I don't bother telling him that actually, likely, Bruce will simply allow me to starve myself. The simplest way to weaken me is to make me do it myself, and if that means drugs in the food to make me wary about eating it, so be it.

I mirror his small shrug, though only with my uninjured shoulder. "That's fine," I say softly, looking down at it. Well, it's certainly not Roy's cooking, but it doesn't look particularly… Alright, it looks pretty bad, maybe even past expiration or a bit like something no one else would ever eat, but it doesn't smell rancid from here — though, with my broken nose, I could just be missing that — and it isn't like Bruce is going to let me die to food poisoning. He'll at least keep me alive for long enough to get a few solid weeks of entertainment and sadistic satisfaction from my pain.

Of course, the most likely option is that he will do exactly what he threatened and promised, which is that he'll leave me to die in here, eventually, to my lungs. Which, in that case, I have nothing to fear from the questionable food, or even from the other inmates. Not really.

I can handle pain, after all. That isn't so bad in the end, and I doubt that anyone in here can do anything to me that's worse than what I've already endured. I've broken once, after all, and I never healed from that. Let them  _try_  to do it again, let Bruce  _try_ and break me any further than he already has.

For Jason, and for Roy, and for everything that I should have done to keep them safe.

_Bring it on._

* * *

I swallow back a scream, arching my head against the floor and breathing sharply, shallowly.

"Doesn't feel great, does it you murdering  _bastard_?"

The hand pressed against my side flares again, heat and  _fire_  melting the fabric of my costume into my flesh, and I swallow and choke back another sound. I've been burned before, lots of times. I've fought all kinds of people with fire or fire-like powers, and while Bruce didn't particularly like the smell he wasn't so opposed to it that he didn't use it as a training tool. Burns are nastier than a lot of other injuries; they stay painful for so much longer, and they're much harder to close.

But it's pain, that's all it is. Just pain, just  _physical_  pain. I can take that, that's not hard.

"Jesus. Mick, isn't that enough?" The man speaking is off to my right, in one of the armchairs, and if I could pry my eyes open for long enough to see him, I'm pretty sure he's got a disapproving scowl on his face.

The hand pulls back, and the once-hero occupied with burning my own costume into my skin stands up and over me. If I could concentrate, if I could really breathe past the lingering fire of a dozen different wounds that are seared into me, I'd kick his legs out from under him.

"You know it  _isn't_ , Leonard. This murdering fucker dragged us all in here, don't you remember that?"

"And he's been in here almost four months, Mick. You think Owlman dropped him in here because he's still Talon? You could ask the kid his story." The first one snorts, starts to say something, and Leonard — Captain Cold, once upon a time — gives a sigh. "Or at least stop burning him. The smell is getting to me."

I feel two hands close in the fabric of my uniform, dragging me off the ground a few feet, and I have to hold back another cry at the feel of the fabric tugging away from where it's burnt into me. If I wasn't so out of it, in so  _much_  pain, and so  _tired,_  maybe I could put up more of a fight. But I've been here so  _long_ , passed from one group of former heroes and criminals to another like a portable punching bag, and I'm only just barely managing to hold on to consciousness, let alone fight. Maybe passing out would be easier, but I don't know what would happen to me if I did.

So far, I've managed to keep conscious through the days, even if only barely. I'm trying to keep it that way.

"What's the matter, Captain? You don't like hearing this son of a bitch scream?"

"He's not screaming," Leonard points out, but sighs again. "When did any of us start condoning torture?"

Mick — Heat Wave, over seven years ago — shakes me, once, where I'm hanging by his hands, and then drops me back to the floor. The breath leaves me for a second, and I bite down on the groan that wants to leave me. "I'd say about the time the Owl and him murdered all our teammates and threw us in this hell. That sound right to you?"

Yes, I remember that.

Legally, the Rogues were fugitives, like most heroes. They started out as a bunch of lucky individuals — Heat Wave, Weather Wizard, Trickster, Mirror Master, and Captain Cold — who happened upon various magical or scientific objects, and bonded together as a team of fairly amateur heroes that operated out of Central City. They were enemies of Johnny Quick, and pretty resilient ones. Basically, he wasn't able to straight out kill them. Right now I honestly can't remember the specifics — it hasn't mattered to me in a  _very_ long time — but there was some organization that took them as scientific experiments, and fused them together with the weapons they carried.

Of course they broke out, that's what heroes do, and they were a lot more dangerous than they had been, even if they weren't fully in control of the powers they'd been gifted. I came up against them a few times, in the course of errands that Bruce sent me out for, but there were never any large fights. I wasn't from their hometown, and they weren't of any particular interest to Bruce so it didn't come up. Until Johnny Quick traded one massive favor — something to do with time travel, as I recall — to Bruce, in exchange for him taking out the Rogues.

So we did.

Bruce and I killed Weather Wizard and Trickster, trapped Mirror Master inside his own universe — as far as I know, he's still there — and took Heat Wave and Captain Cold back to Gotham with us, to stay permanently inside of Arkham Asylum. I'm pretty sure these two are only alive in case Bruce ever needs to throw them back at Johnny Quick.

"I suppose you're right," Leonard says quietly, and I drag my eyes open in defiance of the pain.

My mask is broken on one side, still clinging to my face but shattered where a fist hit at just the right angle, with a strength beyond a normal human's. Consequently, only one eye is still covered by the white film of my mask's lenses. I look up through half-lidded eyes, at the face of my current captor, and he gives me a nasty sneer.

"And the bastard's still with us. You want a go, Captain?"

Leonard, to my right, looks down at me over what looks like a much-used and badly damaged book, and then up at Mick. "You've heard the stories going around, haven't you? That whole thing about this kid only being in here because he betrayed the Owl?"

"Why the hell should that matter? Does that wipe out the murder of our teammates, or what he did to  _us?_ "

A sharp laugh forces its way out of my throat before I can even start to control it, stabbing out like a knife to the center of a chest, and my head arches back as I gasp in pain. If I could control myself, if my left arm wasn't broken in at least three places — not counting the wrist Bruce broke, which never healed — and my right shoulder wasn't a mess of aches, I might have been able to raise my arms, or roll over, or  _anything_. As it is, all I can do is arch a little bit and try not to move in any kind of way that will aggravate any of my injuries.

My instincts scream that I'm exposing my throat, that I'm  _asking_  to die by being in a position so completely undefendable, but the rest of my mind just laughs.

What does it  _matter?_  Everyone I counted as an ally is dead, I'm trapped, and I'm so beaten to hell that what does it even  _matter_  if I bare my throat to these people? Them killing me would be a mercy, a  _kindness_ , and it will  _never happen_. I have so much more to suffer through than that.

Distantly, I'm aware that I'm starting to go a little mad.

"What the hell are you laughing at, you fucker?" Mick demands, leaning over me with hands that blaze with fire and heat.

"Everything," I force out through my teeth, in a voice that's just about as ragged and weak as I feel.

The coughing fits have come back full force. I suppose all the beatings threw the timeline ahead a ways. Of course, I was never fully sure how far my injuries had been healed, and how many months I had left. Now I'm not that far away from where I was at Ra's', before we ever stepped foot off his mountain to retrieve Roy. I guess it makes sense that physical beatings — I haven't screamed for them yet, and I don't intend to, so at least I'm not causing any more damage to my throat — have advanced my rate of degeneration to far faster than it should be.

I'm not exactly being careful, or safe, and I certainly don't have the spare concentration most of the time to keep track of my breathing, or exactly what my body is doing. It's no surprise that my attacks have come back so quickly, and so strongly.

On the plus side, it seems to have calmed a lot of the violence towards me down. When your punching bag starts coughing blood onto the floor and ceases being able to really breathe, I suppose it takes some of the allure out of hurting them. It's a weird psychological quirk, but I'm thankful for it.

If they kept beating me, or in this case burning, after I entered an attack, I don't know if I'd survive it. In fact, maybe the guards have been purposely keeping the other prisoners off me when I go into attacks, to make sure I survive. That wouldn't surprise me; I'm not totally sure why anyone wouldn't take the chance to just kill me, if they weren't. Maybe the story has circulated that the Owl wants me to die slowly?

Mick sneers, leaning down over me, and I resist the urge to close my eyes as his hands get closer to my flesh. I can't help swallowing, or the faint shudder that's half pain and half the  _anticipation_  of pain, but I don't have to close my eyes to get away from it. One of the glowing, smoking hands grips my shoulder, the palm pressing down over my collarbone, and I get just a moment of the uncomfortable warmth seeping through my costume before the actual sensation hits me.

I bite down on my tongue, my head twitching to one side and my shoulder jerking against the ground. The fresh agony blanks out everything else for a moment, the white  _pain_  of fire so hot that it feels  _cold_  burning into my shoulder. The smell of my own skin burning, mixed with the acrid smoke of the fabric of my costume, gets into my nose. My throat clenches down, and I have time for a brief moment of resignation before I choke, seizing as I cough and the taste of blood comes sharp and fresh to my tongue.

Mick flinches back like I punched him, his hand leaving me, and I curl in on myself with a strength born entirely out of desperation and instinct. I'm lying on my broken arm and god it  _hurts_ , but I'm already on that side and I can't get enough concentration or pause from the jerking twitches of my muscles to flip over.

The cement floor isn't a good place to do this, not by a long shot, and not when I'm so badly hurt, but it isn't like I have much of a choice.

"Shit, people weren't kidding.  _I_  didn't do that." It's Mick's voice, but my eyes are clenched tightly shut and I'm only really grounded in the pain of my arm and the brace of my opposite hand against the floor.

There are afterimages behind my lids from how tightly they're closed, as my lungs contract and I choke on the air I'm supposed to be breathing. It's just as bad as any other time, and each gasp of air that doesn't make it all the way to my lungs makes things a little worse. You would think, given the amount of practice and experience I have with this, that it would be easier by now. That maybe I'd have learned how to deal with it, or control it, or maybe even just have it feel a little less like I'm going to suffocate and die. But I don't, and it doesn't.

I think there are people around me that are talking, at least, I can hear something that vaguely resembles words, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins — I'm kind of amazed that my body has any left to give, after all of this — is sending blood roaring past my ears, and my hearing isn't too great right now. It's pretty much confined to the wet drag and gasp of a throat and mouth filled with blood, and the desperate thud of my heart and pulse as it struggles to keep me alive without the air to properly work.

I will never get used to the feeling of suffocating. There's something instinctive and animalistic about it that makes it totally impossible to control the reactions.

Something goes off, something loud enough that even I can hear it. I'm almost certain, even with my scattered, exhausted mind, that it's the alarms of Arkham Asylum.

It's a sharp, wailing sound, like a police siren, and it cuts into my head as efficiently as any kind of blade. Of course, I don't really have any reaction to it beyond curling a little tighter on my side. I can't. I can feel the thud of footsteps — running, I think? — through the floor I'm lying on, and then a hand grabs me by my right arm, pulling up. If I had the air to cry out I would, as my abused shoulder grinds and clicks in a way it's not supposed to — that I can only  _feel_ , and can't hear — and sends a fresh wave of pain up my neck and down my arm. The hand only gets me a foot or so off the ground before abruptly releasing me, and I collapse back onto the floor. My weight comes down on my broken arm, and even the coughs die for a moment at the  _agony_ that freezes me for a precious few seconds.

I've dealt with broken bones, but I'm usually not dying, suffocating, or beaten to hell. I absolutely usually have the presence of mind not to  _land my full weight on them_.

My throat works, swallows, and I'm pretty sure I'm making some kind of desperate little choking noise but it doesn't  _matter_. No one can hear me under the alarms.

Alarms.

What is going  _on?_

If I had the ability to really focus, or the strength to move, maybe I could find out. But that's not happening anytime soon. Obviously someone tried to pick me up, or take me somewhere (Mick? Or was it one of the guards?), but that didn't happen either. When do Arkham alarms even go off? Under an attack, or an earthquake — not that there were any earthquakes, I definitely would have at least felt that — or… I don't know. I think I only remember the alarms in the cave going off on the rare occasion that the Jokester tried to get someone out, and the ones in Arkham itself were always off or at least heavily muted by the time Bruce and I got here. So maybe they only go off for a set time, or once the disturbance is found they turn them down. Or, maybe, the alarms are only this loud  _inside_  Arkham?

Not knowing kind of concerns me. Being completely helpless in the face of not knowing is even worse.

I can't even hear the pounding of my own heart, or the sound of my coughs. I can only  _feel_  it, in the clench and grating drag of the air through my throat. I do what I can to minimize it, try my best to control my breathing and suppress the coughs, but it doesn't help much. It never does. There are some things you just can't control.

Another hand touches my shoulder some time later — time isn't easy to keep track of while in an attack, especially not with the alarms blaring — and grips down with light pressure. It hurts, even though the touch is mostly gentle, but the pain pales in comparison to pretty much everything else. The hand grips a little harder, and then smooths down across my neck to touch my hair.

That's weird.

No guard here would touch me like that. No inmate would touch me like that, for that matter. Maybe the one orderly I met at the very start of all this, but he vanished after that and, to my complete lack of surprise, I never saw him again. I have no idea if Bruce killed him, or if he was simply moved to a different station, time slot, or position, but he certainly never came near me again. Other orderlies, more taciturn ones as well as obviously more experienced, took over control of taking care of my wounds after the other inmates had their turns at me. An ever changing display of faces bandaged me up, fed me, and occasionally drugged me with something — it felt like painkillers mixed with a heavy sedative, in high enough doses to affect even me — if I was too injured to resist.

The turning point in all of this was probably the day that they let me have my arms back. There were times they unchained them — while I was in my cell, mainly — but I was never allowed outside of the cell with my arms free until nearly a month in. I guess, by that point, they assumed — or were told — that I wasn't going to be able to do any real damage to anyone who came after me. Mostly, they were right. I kept the other inmates off me with the new advantage for about a day and a half, for the most part, but that was all I could manage.

By this point I've beaten or been beaten by, I'm pretty sure, every other prisoner here. Not necessarily badly, but I do my best to fight when I can, no matter how ineffective it ends up being. I couldn't really stomach just giving up, not while Bruce is still watching me.

The hand doesn't feel like Bruce's, either, thinking about it.

He touched gently, sometimes — well, he touched without real pressure, it was rarely actually gentle — but if he'd come because the alarms in Arkham are going off he wouldn't be standing, or kneeling, next to me. He'd be watching and smirking, or busy taking care of whatever caused the alarms to go off in the first place.

Besides, the hand now gently curled into my hair is an actual hand, not a gauntlet or a glove. I can feel the skin against my scalp, the warmth of it, and I can feel the distinct lack of leather or metal around it. Who wouldn't have something covering their hands?

That rules out any of the guards — they have gloves, with reinforced padding and sharp bits of metal over the knuckles as a basic weapon — Bruce, or any other masked hero or criminal. Not that I can  _think_  of any mask that would be touching me like this.

Jason would, Roy might — he never got enough time to fully get around my old attitude of 'touch only if you enjoy broken bones' — but both of them are dead. Ra's might, but there's no  _reason_  for Ra's to come after me. I'm no use to him without Jason or Roy around; a dying ex-Talon isn't exactly any good to a hero, after all. I was useful when I was the only thing keeping Jason around, or Roy in line, but just by myself? No, what reason would he ever have for that?

The hand leaves me, and I can feel the slight touch of what I think is a boot against my back as whoever it is — I think — stands. I can feel more running footsteps, they never stopped, but whoever it is standing next to me doesn't move. The edge of the boot stays pressed against my back as I ride out the attack, until the alarms cut off with a sharp whine that hurts even after the blaring of the alarm.

The attack's a little easier by then, but it's taken so  _much_  out of me that I can't look up, can't do anything but shiver against the ground and jerk with each successive cough.

The boot shifts away, and then there's the soft drag of fabric over my shoulder and against my back. Not a fabric that I recognize, but whatever they're wearing must be dragging or long to touch me like that. The same hand — long fingers, slender, with some calluses but not many — touches the skin at my throat, gently massaging into the back of my neck.

"It is alright, Grayson," says a smooth, soft voice, and if I could only  _look up_ I could be sure I'm not going  _crazy_.

"Ra's?" I ask, as soon as I have the air to do it. My voice comes out quietly, grating and rough, barely even there, but the slight tightening of his fingers proves he heard me.

"Yes," the voice answers, definitely Ra's, and something in me — past the pain, the exhaustion, and the  _numbness_  I've let consume me — cracks and warms in a way  _very_  different than the fire of the burns in my skin. "Breathe, Grayson,  _steady_."

It's like his words are an order to the fabric of my being, and I can feel the attack slow and then, finally, release its hold on me, letting me draw in a shallow breath. His hand gently touches the side of my face, leaving my neck, and he speaks.

"Can you stand?"

I manage enough strength for a tiny shake of my head, but not enough to pry my eyes open. The room is quiet, nearly silent, but I can hear faint sounds from somewhere else in the building, beyond the — I'm pretty sure — poorly soundproofed walls. Yells, it sounds like, maybe screams.

Ra's' hands slip underneath me, lifting me with no apparent trouble, and I know I give some kind of keening cry as he gets me off the ground. My costume shifts and tugs where it's burned into me, the injured shoulder pressed into his chest  _aches_ , and my broken left arm hangs limply downwards, dragging across the ground until I'm high enough for it to just be in air. Every other ache and bruise makes itself sharply, instantly, known underneath Ra's' touch, and I— I  _can't_.

The burn of what I'm pretty sure is a strained knee under his other hand, the grinding,  _sick_ , shift of broken ribs, and the pain in my calf that I'm pretty sure is just muscle damage, and not actually broken bone. Everything beaten into me over the last four months comes alive and  _screams_.

I'm pretty sure I black out for a few moments, because when I'm fully aware again we're moving. My left arm is cradled against my stomach, no longer hanging, and the air rushes against my face as we head… wherever we're heading. My breath hitches, I swallow down a cough and a fair amount of what tastes like blood, and Ra's slows down a touch.

"You don't have to be conscious, Grayson," Ra's says quietly, as I struggle to pull my eyes open. It's him, I'm  _sure_ , but I want to  _see_. I want all of this to be real, not some kind of hallucination or a fever dream. I haven't fully cracked have I? Last I checked I was still a good few steps away from being completely insane.

"Why?" I ask, past the pain that closes my throat as efficiently as an attack, and a jaw that would be clenched if I had the strength to close it.

It feels like a long time before I get an answer, and maybe it is, or maybe I'm just so out of it that it takes me a while to hear it. Or the scarier option, that I'm fading in and out of consciousness and maybe he does answer, and then has to repeat himself.

"You are under my protection," Ra's answers simply. "Hush, Grayson, you're in no condition to be speaking, or to hold a conversation. Sleep, my ward. You will be safe."

But that doesn't… I don't… I'm not any  _use_  to him, am I?

I manage to open my eyes just a little, and the blur of skin and the dark shape of hair around it is enough Ra's-shaped that I ease. Hallucinations aren't usually this vivid — or this painful — so, this is real? He's actually here? I don't  _understand_.

My eyes slip closed again. Even past the pain burning away at my core, and the bright bursts of it that spike sharp as a blade in my heart, I somehow manage to slip into the black of unconsciousness.


	17. Beneath the Spread of Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! So, this is chapter 17, otherwise known as 'the chapter where I fix some things.' So, in bad news I'm mildly sick. In good news, that means I'm home from work and have a bunch more time to do stuff (sniffling and cringing every time I swallow does not make for a good retail worker). This is good because I actually had a party last night, and we needed to totally fix the house today (all kinds of furniture got shuffled around). So I'll see what I can get done past that. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

The touch of something soft against my skin feels completely alien. I stir awake, the world coming fuzzily into focus on all of my senses, and even as I slip back to full consciousness I can recognize the hazy, light feeling of heavy painkillers.

That's new.

I can't remember the last time I woke up on painkillers, especially ones that actually worked. A fair bit of me feels like it  _should_  hurt, and as the facts slowly come back to me I  _know_  they should, but they don't. They don't feel right, but it's not painful. I open my eyes with an ease that feels unnatural, even though the world swims a moment before my vision fully solidifies. The room is familiar, the ceiling in specific since I haven't turned my head, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's  _my_  room. At Ra's' stronghold.

So I wasn't hallucinating, I haven't cracked. Ra's actually came for me.  _Why?_

I blink and stir, a small noise leaving me before I can even attempt to smother it at the shift of bone that I can feel. Clearly, I'm in no way healed. So it hasn't been that long, and though I can dimly feel the pressure of bandages over a fair amount of me, I don't think any real healing has been done.

A hand touches my upper right arm — out from under the blanket, where the fabric is tucked under both my armpits — with fingers that are firm, but careful. Not Ra's' hand. Thicker fingers, larger hands, and more calluses. Lots more.

"Hey, D. You feeling alright?"

I turn my head in a fog that I'm pretty sure is shock, dragging my eyes blindly across the landscape of the room until they come to rest on red-orange hair, green eyes, and a small smile.  _What?_  But I thought— He was— He should be  _dead_.

…

I'm fairly sure he's said that exact same thing to me, out loud.

"Roy?" I question, something in my chest that almost feels like… hope? Maybe this is all some sick game of Bruce's; there are shape-changing metahumans, and aliens — J'onn Jonzz comes immediately to mind — that could easily play the part of someone else. I wouldn't put it past Bruce to find some new way to torture me, after I proved fairly immune to pain inside Arkham.

Roy snorts, hand squeezing down for just a moment. "You didn't have a concussion, D, and you're not on enough painkillers to make you  _that_  fuzzy, I know your tolerance better. Why are you surprised to see me?"

"You were  _dead_ ," I say, in a mumble that's quieter than I'd like, and less carefully pronounced than I'd like as well. He gives me a look that I'm pretty sure is some mix of 'what are you talking about?' and ' _are_  you concussed?'

"D, how much do you remember about the fight?"

"You were bleeding," I manage to get through my fogged mind. I don't think I want to know what all of the damage to me feels like without the painkillers numbing it out, but the haziness to my thoughts is frustrating in a way I'm unfamiliar with. I haven't dealt with hazed perception in a fairly long time. "Bruce, he… I heard something crack."

Roy winces, his free hand rising to rub across the side of his skull as if he can feel what I'm talking about. "Yeah, that was bad. But I'm alright, D, see?" His hand squeezes down over my arm for another moment, and I blink and try and remember if there's  _anything_  between the memory of falling unconscious under Bruce's shadow, and waking up in Arkham.

There's not.

I remember him collapsing to the ground next to me, clutching at an injured side, and I remember Bruce kicking him to the floor before kicking him again in the side of the head, badly enough that something cracked. But there isn't much more after that. Jason jumped in — my stomach clenches, and my throat tightens — Bruce killed him, and I blacked out. Roy was still on the ground, he should be dead.

"How?"

Roy gives a tight smile that looks, at the same time, relieved, worried, and afraid. I don't know how he manages to fit that much into the single look. "Things are kind of fuzzy," he admits, with a small shrug, "but I think… I don't think I was worth his time. He just left me there." His gaze leaves my eyes, dropping down towards my chest and then up to where my other arm must be lying. "I guess he just wanted you."

That… I suppose that could make sense. Bruce did tell me that he'd decided that  _I_  was the one who needed to suffer for ever allowing Jason the chance to escape, or something along those lines. Roy… I don't know if Roy was  _ever_  more than an incidental target.

"He told me you were dead," I manage to get out, and Roy's gaze snaps back to meet mine.

"I— Fuck. Really? Christ, no  _wonder_ you looked at me like you'd seen a damn ghost."

That doesn't make any  _sense_. "I  _have_  seen ghosts," I answer, blearily, and Roy gives a small grin.

"It's just a saying, D, not literal. I guess those painkillers  _are_  messing with you, huh?" I huff out a breath that I'm pretty sure I intended to communicate my aggravation, but sounds almost like a sigh to my ears. I swallow, blinking back the haze of whatever drugs are in my system, and Roy shakes his head. "No.  _Bad_. Don't do that." He grins as I stare at him uncomprehendingly, unwilling to figure out the mystery of emotions and responses that is Roy Harper right at this moment. "Go back to sleep, D, you need it. I'll let Ra's know you were awake."

I think I say something that could be considered an agreement, my eyes drifting shut, and Roy's fingers squeeze down on my arm one more time before letting go. My skin feels cold without them, and some part of me — frighteningly close to the surface, since the rest of me is shut down or incapacitated by the drugs — misses the warm pressure of my archer's hand.

I can hear him leave, hear the door click shut, and I pry my eyes open just a little bit to take a look around. I think I trust Roy, and I'm almost certain I trust Ra's, but there are plenty of other people in his League of Shadows that I've crossed in some way or another, and many that would like to see me dead. This would certainly be a good time to make that happen.

The door isn't locked, which worries me for all of a moment before I realize that there is  _no_  way I can get that far on my own, and even if I did then I would just be locked in here by myself. That's not going to be helpful. There's a chair by my bed that I'm certain wasn't there before. Simple, wooden, what Roy was sitting in. Beside the chair, between it and the wall, is a tall metal pole of the medical kind, several bags of various fluids — and one that looks suspiciously like blood — hooked up to it alongside the machine that control the drip. I follow the tube down to my right arm, where it's taped in at my elbow. The tape almost, but not completely, covers a rather large needle.

Hm. Well, I'm fairly certain that the IV is what's feeding me the painkillers I'm on, but I'm also pretty sure it's feeding me a fair amount of probably important nutrients and vitamins into my system. Ones that got leached out of me, simply faded off in Arkham's not-so-healthy environment, or were minimized by me spitting up blood as I slowly worked my way towards dying.

Well, as much as I'd like to be off the haziness of these painkillers, I'm not risking the pain itself right now. I don't know exactly how bad it is — my memories from when Ra's picked me up are unpleasant enough — but I know that it's nothing I want to suffer through if I can help it. Roy is right anyway, I could use the sleep. I don't know the last time I slept a decent — decent in my opinion, that is, not the world's — amount during a night in Arkham, or the last time that the sleep was actually uninterrupted or free of the pain that somehow managed to leech its way inside my mind even while I was unconscious.

I could use real sleep to recover, as whatever it is that's in the IV replenishes whatever's missing from me. I'm pretty sure I trust Ra's enough to not have to double check and try and figure out what's in the IV, or refuse it altogether. Even if I  _was_  that distrusting, I'm pretty sure Ra's' strange sense of guardianship would have him chain me down to the bed before he let me kill myself or cripple my immune system, rate of recovery, or health itself by removing the IV.

There's probably not much use in protesting it, especially to an empty room. For the time being, I suppose I can just sleep, and wait to see what Ra's wants from me.

After all, he got me out of Arkham. Roy isn't dead, so it makes a little more sense, but still, not enough. There must be something else at play here, he must want something that I can give him.

I just have to see what it is.

* * *

It's probably a good thing that I'm still fairly high on painkillers next time I wake up, because otherwise I would have tried to lash out at the person owning the hand that shakes me awake.

It's not a hard shake, barely even firm by my standards, but I still twitch and snap awake as quickly as the drugs in my system allow me to. Which, honestly, isn't fast. Hands are pressing my arms into the bed, holding me back from my instinctively violent reaction before I can even get my eyes open. Those hands are careful, avoiding what I'm pretty sure are broken or injured spots, which makes them a bit awkwardly spaced, but still more than enough to hold me down right now. Even if I wasn't drugged, there's no way I'd have the strength to break free in the kind of state that I'm in.

It's good that I  _am_  that drugged though, because it's Ra's leaning over me. He raises an eyebrow, releasing me as soon as it's obvious that I'm aware again and know who he is, and sits back into the chair by my bed.

"Are you conscious?" he asks bluntly, watching me and not lowering his one arched eyebrow.

"Somewhat," I answer, shifting and then immediately stilling again. I'm too high on painkillers to feel any of the pain — impressive, considering my resistance to most drugs; I wonder how Ra's knows my tolerance? — but I can still feel the shift of my ribs moving in ways they shouldn't, and the grind and pull of my right shoulder as the muscle around it hooks and catches in ways that  _also_  shouldn't happen.

Fuzziness aside, I appreciate the painkillers for doing exactly what they're supposed to; kill the pain.

"That's probably good enough," Ra's says, eyebrow finally lowering as he gives a small smile. "I'm unaware of what Harper might have told you, so forgive any repeats of information."

"It was only a few minutes," I intercede, taking the moment to study Ra's. He looks very nearly perfectly put together, but there's an extra bulkiness to his lower left arm, a bump in the otherwise smooth lines of his robes, that makes me think there might be bandages or a brace hidden beneath it. "He didn't really," I pause to swallow, and give my head a tiny shake to try and clear it, "tell me anything."

Ra's nods, flicking his arms in what looks like a practiced movements, to fold his hands inside the sleeves. "Then there are quite a few things that you will probably appreciate knowing. Obviously, Harper is alive." He only stops a moment, offering that same thin smile, and then continues. "I'm aware of what occurred in the fight the three of you had with Gotham's King, it's a shame it ended so poorly." Meaning  _Jason_. My throat catches again, as it always seems to whenever Jason's name comes up in my own thoughts. "Harper managed to get back here, if barely, and recovered extremely well from his injuries. In addition, he brought Jason with him. You know that he's dead?"

I manage a nod, and then a small, "Yes." It  _hurts_  to think about, but I force the feelings back as far as I can with the drug hindering my usual emotional control. "I saw it happen." It isn't fair, and the  _pain_  and  _anger_  and  _guilt_  rages at the edge of my mind, clinging to my insides for a chance to claw its way up my throat and out of my mouth. I haven't felt this way in… I've  _never_.

I want Bruce  _dead_  for what he did to Jason. I want the  _bastard_  dead.

Ra's' eyes narrow for a moment, and he seems to see something of what I'm feeling on my face because he retrieves one hand from inside his robe and reaches out to very gently brush my shoulder — through bandages, but I can feel it — with his fingertips.

"It is never pleasant to lose a friend," he says softly, "and I will not tell you what to do. However, listen to me before you try anything."

"What am I going to try?" I ask, almost bitterly, giving my head a tiny, sharp jerk downwards to point at the rest of me. At the bandages and the splint around most of my left arm. "I'm not going anywhere."

Ra's' hand presses a little firmer, and then rises to comb my hair away from my face. "I'm holding Jason's body in stasis," he tells me.

"Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes a little bit. Why would Ra's bother holding a corpse in stasis, or freezing it, or whatever he's done?

For me? He should know better than to think a corpse actually holds any kind of significance to me; I've been around death too much for that. Once you kill someone, once they cease breathing or their heart stops, they are no longer the person you knew, or the person they were before they died. A corpse is nothing more than flesh, bone, and spilled blood. I understand why some people choose to bury them, but I understand cremation even more. It's what I would choose for myself.

Maybe I should tell Ra's that. After all, he'll probably be the one that ends up with my body, if Bruce doesn't get it. I honestly don't know what Bruce would do with my body. Probably cremation, that's the easiest way to remove any kind of possible evidence. I suppose that's not too bad, on the scale of things.

Ra's gives me a long look, several seconds more than most others he's given me, and then gives a soft sigh and a small nod. Seemingly to himself, as I certainly didn't ask a question capable of being answered by a simple nod. 'Yes' is not a viable answer to 'why'.

"I intend to bring Jason back," he says, simply, "with your cooperation."

I'm pretty sure my eyes widen, and I'm also pretty sure that whatever shock I'm feeling is plain on my face. "Bring him  _back?_ " I echo, staring up at Ra's.

I knew Ra's had the Lazarus Pits, I always knew that, but bringing someone back from the dead? Can the pits really do something that powerful? I've never heard any actual stories about that, only rumors, but then Ra's is very careful to keep all knowledge of the Lazarus Pits away from the Crime Syndicate. His theoretically fatal wounds aside, I'd always assumed that if Ra's was badly injured he just held on until he was in the pit, and was never technically dead when he was dipped in. Is that right, or has Ra's come back from death himself?

"Is that  _possible?_ " I demand, in as much of a 'don't mess with me' tone as I can manage, given the state of my voice and my current weak, drugged, state.

"Yes," Ra's answers, watching me with an obviously studying look. "It is not  _easy_ , and it does not always go well, but yes. Someone who has died can be brought back. However, they are not always what they were, which is why I will  _not_  consider this without the promise of your cooperation."

"What do you need?" I hear myself ask, instantly. It  _scares_  me that I'm so quick to jump to heel at the  _hint_  of there being a way to bring Jason back, a way to save him. I shouldn't be that devoted to anyone, or dependent on anyone. Jason was a… an ally, a friend, maybe even more, but I should be able to let him go. Why  _can't_  I?

Ra's removes his hand, hiding it inside his sleeve once more. "The Lazarus Pits are very powerful, and they can heal very nearly anything, but that is also what makes them extremely dangerous. The power they hold is not to be trifled with, and it must be combated with a determination very few hold. Weaker humans enter the pits to be healed, and emerge driven mad by its power. It is not fully sentient, not in the way you may think of the word, but it certainly has a will of its own.  _Not_  a kind one, either."

"You've been in the pits," I point out. "I don't even know how many times you've been in them."

Ra's gives me a smile that has a razor edge, and there's a flash of bright green to his eyes that I'm almost sure I imagined. But, maybe not. "And I'm not precisely a normal hero am I, Grayson?" he asks smoothly, letting the smile fade. "There will always be a part of the pits in me, as there will be in anyone who ever uses one. It is not a simple battle, and it is a battle that never  _ends_. The only reason I have considered this course of action at all, is because I am aware of how very stubborn Jason was. That stubbornness will give him a chance."

"Then what part of this is me?" I ask. "If that's all you need—"

"And that would suffice  _if_ Jason were injured, and not dead," Ra's says, cutting me off. "He may be stubborn, but that will not help him if he does not know who to fight, or why.  _That_  is where you come into this." His gaze flicks down my frame, then back up to my eyes. "Firstly, I will allow you into the Lazarus Pit."

I stare at him for a moment, swallowing thickly. "You're healing me?" I ask, with a bit of disbelief.

"Does that surprise you, Grayson?" Ra's asks with a small smile. "Gotham's King is my enemy, and if I heal you, to revive Jason, then I have three talented, dangerous humans that would very much like to cut my enemy down for me. That is certainly motive enough, if I needed one.  _If_  I need one, however, is my business, not yours."

Point. I've considered the danger that Jason, Roy, and I could be if we were set up against Bruce with the proper training. Before we didn't all have the proper motivation, but now? Now even  _I_  want him dead, and I don't hate very easily. I don't  _anything_  very easily, to be honest.

"Yes," Ra's confirms, "I'm going to heal you. Jason will need to be controlled and contained, and as you are, even once your surface injuries heal, you wouldn't be able to do that. Additionally, your imprisonment in Arkham Asylum was a rather definitive and obvious message that Gotham's King will never work with you again, no matter what he may say. It eased some of my suspicions of you, though not all. I will heal you, and when both you and Jason are alive and well, I will train the both of you as well."

"You think I can handle a Lazarus Pit?" Given that Ra's basically said you needed  _Jason's_  level of stubbornness to escape one without going mad, I suppose that says something about how he sees me as well. I don't think I'm usually that stubborn, but I'm certainly not going to stop Ra's from what he wants to do. After all, the alternative is death.

"You have a very different kind of strength than Jason's, Grayson, but yes, I believe you will be able to hold back the pit's effects. It will be easier for you, as I will be able to teach you how to do so before you go in. I will not get that opportunity in Jason's case."

"You still haven't said what my part in this is." I glance down at the lump over Ra's' left arm. "You're more than capable of containing Jason, why would you need me for that?" It isn't a case of him being injured, he could always go into the pit before Jason and fix that just as easily — in fact, much more easily — than he can fix me. If it's just a case of holding Jason down until he's sane again, I shouldn't be needed.

True, Ra's would need to have me here so that he wouldn't have one  _pissed_  Jason  _demanding_  to know why I was still locked up in Arkham, but that's not a reason to help me. Jason wouldn't appreciate that either, but he'd probably let it go after a bit of time.

Ra's gives a slight sigh. "I do not need you to contain Jason, I need you to  _speak_  to him." I stare at him without saying anything, and he raises an eyebrow. If he were any less reserved, I imagine he would be rolling his eyes. "With the  _possible_  exception of Roy — and I lack surveillance on the three of you so I cannot be certain —  _you_  are still the only person Jason trusts, Grayson. If anyone else attempted to hold him down — as you will  _have_  to, make no mistake — they would suffer serious injury, and the madness of the pit would only become worse. I am betting that if  _you_  are the one to do so, your voice and face may call to the parts of him that will be shrouded, and you will be able to talk him through getting it under control. I am not absolutely certain, but it seems a likely possibility. If it does not work, you are still enough to contain him until he tires."

"Is it that powerful?" I ask. The alternative is Jason being dead, so of course I'm willing to try, but is the pit really that strong? Is it really so likely that if I wasn't here, Jason would go mad?

"Yes," Ra's answers bluntly. "As I said, I'm not positive this will work. But it is the best chance he has. Will you assist me in this?"

I manage a small nod, shutting my eyes for a moment as the painkillers hit me especially strong for a moment, floating my mind off into the clouds, before I yank myself back together. "Yes, of course."

Ra's gives a small smile, and an equally small nod. "Good. It will take a few more days for you to stabilize completely, and I'll take the time to teach you how to resist the effects of the pit, as well as how to coach Jason through it when he comes out. For now, are there any questions you'd like answered?"

"How'd you get me out of Arkham?" I ask after a couple of moments of thinking.

I know Ra's showed up, that he pulled me out and carried me out, but the  _alarms_  went off. Bruce should have been there, and unless he showed up after Ra's was already most of the way out — which is a  _very_  slow response time for him, given the amount of time that passed while the alarms were blaring — I should have heard a lot more struggle. Ra's should have had a much harder time getting out. So the only explanation is that he was busy somewhere else, or for some reason couldn't get to Arkham when the alarms went off, which makes me think this was bigger than Ra's just walking in and taking me.

Ra's would never risk something that simple anyway, not for a place as dangerous and secure as Gotham and, specifically, Arkham Asylum. He has to have had more of a plan than that.

Ra's almost —  _almost_  — looks proud.

"You would be surprised the amount of people that were willing to help you, Grayson." He smiles, meeting my gaze, which I'm fairly sure is skeptical. "Luthor, the Jokester, Harlequin, Croc, Ivy, Dent, Harper… Even my daughter, Talia, wished to join. That was  _before_  the heroes that weren't entirely certain who they were helping, but joined me anyway."

"That sounds like a  _large_  rescue party, even for Arkham." Ra's gives a small sound of amusement, and shakes his head.

"Distractions, most of them. Luthor stirred up trouble in Metropolis, with a few heroes for support, and I had Talia start an operation in Central City to keep Johnny Quick occupied. Gotham's King, I distracted with the Jokester's group. The Jokester is  _quite_  good at distraction. He made sure that your former master didn't have time to go to Arkham when the alarms went off, unless he wanted to sacrifice quite a bit of profit. Harper was with me as backup, along with a fair number of my subordinates, in case he  _did_  decide to sacrifice that profit." Ra's gives a razor thin smile that manages to be friendly and dangerous at the same time. "He did, but not until it was far too late. Harper was already gone with you, and our spar was brief before I managed to leave as well. Not even Gotham's King of Shadows can ignore the Jokester for long, as you know."

"That's your arm?" I confirm, giving a brief tilt of my head down towards the irregular lump.

"A shallow cut," Ra's says with a dismissive edge, "nothing more."

Ra's reaches out again, once more pulling my hair away from my face, tucking it back behind my ears. It occurs to me that I really don't know what I look like now. Four months is a long time, and there aren't really mirrors in Arkham. My cheeks generally felt smooth to my own touch, but that brings up some weird questions about who was shaving me, because it certainly wasn't me. I suppose it's not too strange of a thought that Bruce would make sure the orderlies kept me looking the way I was supposed to, so that even if his 'Talon' was bruised and beaten, I also didn't look unkempt and unworthy of the title. Bruce's mind works in strange ways, sometimes.

"Any more questions?"

I think for a few more moments, but between the leftover haziness from the drugs and the exhaustion tugging at my mind — probably a side effect of the drugs, but also possibly just that sleep is a good thing that I haven't had much of — I can't think of anything. I shake my head and let my eyes close under Ra's gentle touch to my forehead.

"Then sleep, Grayson. I'll wake you in a few hours, and we can start your preparations."

It's all too easy to follow Ra's' orders.

* * *

The fire  _burns_  inside me. Green  _acid_  pumping through my veins until all I can do is struggle to stay breathing, to  _let_  the green into me and not fight it the way my instincts scream to.

_Healing_ , I remind myself, as it latches claws into me and rakes. It feels like it's stripping layers of me away, carving my flesh from my bones until I'm nothing but the core of myself. Until I'm just a mannequin of bones and blood with nothing to hold me together but the  _green_ , and then it carves deeper. It takes me apart and, like I was warned I  _have_ to do, I take another deep breath of the liquid acid and focus myself in on the one thing I'm certain will keep me steady against all of this.

_This is for Jason._

It sings and screams around me, and it's only when I feel like nothing more than a ball of energy inside its depths — when it's soaked into every inch of my being and  _has_ me — that I hold on to that thought and  _wrench_. I dig my feet in and  _pull_ away from the green,  _forcing_ it from inside my lungs and my skin, and slowly pulling myself back together until I can feel myself again. Until I'm once again  _human_ inside the pit. It feels like pulling myself out of tar, or glue, but it stings and  _burns_ , and I know that there would be worse waiting for me than death if I let it have me.

Madness,  _insanity_ , Ra's' voice warns in my head, and I shove away my burning lungs and stinging skin, shoving off from the bottom of the pool and bursting out above it. I gasp in proper air, cold against the skin of my face and in comparison to the strange heat of the pit, setting my gaze on the edge of the pool and  _forcing_ myself that direction.

_Jason_.

It's only about fifteen feet to the edge of the pool, but with the way the green clings to me, screams at the back of my mind to stay in it and let myself  _become_  it, it feels like much longer. It feels so many times longer than the fifteen seconds that it takes, and when I curl my fingers around the edge of the rock shelf — only rock for about a foot, until it transfers to formed, polished stone — and drag myself up, it takes nearly all my concentration.

One of my hands slips, slick with the acidic green from the pool, and my shoulder slams into the rock before I recover. I pull up out of the pool, and logic insists that the pit should stop singing and shouting in my mind when I leave it but it  _doesn't_. I curl onto the stone, my hands bracing against it and my head lowering to press against it. It's cold, so  _cold_.

_Come back to the warmth_ , whispers a voice in my mind. Not mine, not quite, but close enough that I could mistake it for that if I wasn't careful, if I didn't  _know_. But I do, Ra's warned me. It will fade, I can control it. I  _can_  do this. I've taken and controlled so many reactions, so many tricks of my own mind, that one more is nothing. Not with the proper knowledge, and training, and preparation; all of which I have. I've done this before.

I hear the click of a booted heel against the stone. Ra's. "Grayson—" I snap a hand out to stop his approach, silently asking him to stop with the splayed palm. I just need a few moments.

Anger and fear hisses in the back of my mind, the  _green_  stealing down my spine and into my chest. It burns and spits, stinging against my senses like the smell of smoke or the spark of a fire, but I swallow it back. I have spent  _years_  controlling my own emotions, and it doesn't matter if they're natural or not, that doesn't make me able to control them any less. I push back the anger — unnatural, not real, only Bruce and Jason can inspire that — and the fear — even  _less_  real — deep into my chest, closing my eyes tightly to concentrate on myself. I lock the feelings into a tight ball, shoving it deep into myself and away from the forefront of my mind.

It's harder than I thought it would be. The emotions cling and grip — tainted green and  _sharp_  — in a way they're not supposed to, but it's not as hard as other things that I've done. Not as hard as Arkham, or being under Bruce, or most of the things I've had to do over the years to stay sane or alive. I have done things even Roy would condemn — and Jason would give me that  _look_  that screams that he doesn't think what I've done is anything like what he has — and had to do it with a smile and a complete lack of guilt or remorse. Sometimes, that was harder than anything else could be.

The feelings burn at me, but I can recognize the touch as unnatural, and I've had enough moments under the influence of the strange compounds of the Jokester, or Scarecrow, or Ivy, that it almost feels normal. Except this isn't a gas or a drug, it's just my own mind, and that is  _so_  much easier to slip away from.

I regulate my breathing — it's so  _easy_ , for the first time in  _months_  — and slow my heart, easing into my own skin until it feels comfortable again and not like there's a layer of something toxic and damaging inside my veins.

Nothing will ever control me again. Not unless I let it.

I open my eyes, pushing myself to my feet with an ease that's  _so_  refreshing, and so completely free from pain, that it stuns me for a moment. It feels so good to be able to move without having to bite back screams, or feel the tug of half-healed wounds and burn of fresh ones. It's been a long time since I didn't feel  _any_  pain.

I flex my fingers, my wrists, roll my shoulders, exploring the simpler boundaries of what the pit has changed me into. I don't feel entirely myself anymore, but in this case I don't think that's a bad thing. There's definitely something in me, as Ra's warned, that will never go away, but I can lock that away with all of my trained, conditioned responses and keep it there. The exchange is freedom, and a strength to my muscles that's not new, but revisited. Me, at the height of what I was capable of, but without any of the bruises or the injuries to hold me back.

It feels  _good_.

I look up, to where Ra's is standing. His face is carefully smooth, guarded, and I meet his studying look without a problem. He only looks at me for a moment before giving a slow nod, and a thin smile.

"Welcome back, Grayson."

He nods to the side, towards one of the subordinates ringing the deep cave, and the robed figure — no mask, only a hood that hides, at the right angle, about half his face — starts forward with a dark black towel in his hands. I take it, and the league member melts back against the wall silently, without complaint or even a word.

There's still a layer of the not-really-water over me. It's not obviously green, not outside of the pit itself, but the way it feels over my skin does  _not_  feel like water. I'm  _very_  familiar with what water feels like, or most other things you can swim through. This isn't anything I can remember feeling before. Even out of the pit this stings at me, slides across my skin like it's hands or the brush of someone I can't see. It feels  _aware_ , and I don't appreciate it.

I swipe the towel over myself, removing most of the moisture, before dragging it through and across my hair. I'm pretty sure it wrecks whatever semblance of good hair I had and makes it stand up on end, but it doesn't matter enough to me to get me to leave the water in it alone. I'm not that vain, and the pit's 'water' is bad enough that I don't want to leave it there regardless of how ridiculous it might make me look to towel my hair dry.

The only thing that stays wet is the black shorts I have on — Ra's explained that it was best if the most skin possible was exposed to the pit, but insisted that I wear shorts for reason I'm not totally sure he ever explained — and those cling to my skin. Uncomfortable, a bit, but it's not so bad in comparison to a lot of other things I've endured.

In toweling off, I realize something that actually stills me for a long few moments. Most of my scars are gone. Not all of them, there are still long furrows and tracks of scar tissue in my skin, but all of the smaller scars I remember are gone, and even the bigger ones seem smaller, smoother to the touch. I knew the Lazarus Pit would heal my current injuries, but I didn't expect it to heal any of the ones that had already closed. It's not like I could use Ra's as a comparison for what the pit does; I've never seen him even semi-unclothed, and I have no idea what scars he does or doesn't have.

There's still the section of puckered, acid-scarred skin on my right side, but it's much smaller than I remember, and the edges blend smoothly into unmarked skin instead of being ragged and not-quite-right.

This is, interesting. It's going to take me a while, when I have time, to catalogue exactly what remains and what's gone. Longer to match them up to the injuries I received them from. Maybe I can figure out exactly where the level is that the pit will heal scars, and which ones are too extreme. That could be useful information, especially in the theoretical case that I need to use the pit again. It would be good to know exactly where the limit lies, if there is one.

If I go in again, or more than that, will it slowly erase all of the scars on me, regardless of how bad they originally were? Tempting to figure out, but not so tempting that I would risk Ra's' anger over it. It was a concession to allow me the use of his Lazarus Pits even once, so unless I need to I won't try for them again.

I'm also half convinced that the urge to go back in the pit is not entirely  _me_  talking, and I don't want these whispers lurking in the back of my mind to be any stronger than they have to be. I'm almost certain that the pit's influence would grow stronger every time I entered it, which makes me wonder how Ra's manages to still be sane after all this time. That's a level of discipline and control that seems impressive even to me. Maybe the pit's influence gets easier to handle after practice? Or maybe it fades over time?

I keep hold of the towel — if this works out right, I'll want it to cover Jason — but look back up to Ra's. "Are we ready?" I ask, and he nods.

"Leave us," he calls out to the rest of the room, and the ring of spread out League of Shadows members unanimously head for the exit, slipping away on mostly silent footsteps. Not completely, so they may be trained but not  _perfectly_ , but it's still a lot quieter than most other humans or even masked criminals or heroes. Interestingly, probably the loudest person in this entire stronghold is Roy. He doesn't do stealth the way the rest of us do.

The doors close with a heavy thunk and shift of stone against more stone, and Ra's crosses to a panel built into the wall beside it that looks remarkably out of place in the mostly elegant, mostly old-fashioned, and very  _empty_  octagonal room. The passageway down is guarded by quite a few security doors, and squirrelled away in a corner of the stronghold that even I never saw before now, but the door into the room itself is just heavy stone, clearly from a time that has long since passed.

I flick my eyes up, to the winch system in the ceiling and the figure — stiff with rigor mortis — suspended in it from chains. Jason. It hurts to see him like that, hurts to see him doing anything, and being anything, but the brightly,  _vibrantly_  alive person that he was, but I swallow back the inconsequential pain. It won't be long. Jason enters the pit, and he comes back out alive again.

Maybe not himself, maybe it will take some time to calm him down or to get him to work past the pit-madness, but I'll do it. For Jason, I'd do almost anything.

Ra's gives me a slight glance, clearly checking to see that I'm paying attention, before pressing commands into the panel that I can't see from here; most of his body is in the way of it. Whatever he types in it makes the winch slowly engage, lowering Jason's still form — mostly stripped bare, and pale in a way I can only associate with death — into the faintly bubbling waters of the Lazarus Pit. The locks on the bottoms of the chains, holding Jason inside their grip, disengage just a few feet from the surface, and Ra's withdraws them upwards as Jason's body hits the waters with a splash, and sinks below the rippling water.

For a long few minutes it feels like nothing is happening. The water stays calm, silent, and I trade a glance with Ra's. He's focused on the pool, face set in an expression that looks faintly worried, but not yet resigned. I certainly don't know the idea behind bringing someone back with the Lazarus pit, and I honestly don't know if Ra's has ever personally watched it happen before either. Or even if it's ever been done after so many months dead. I suppose I can't give up, or even think anything negative, until Ra's says so.

I refocus on the surface of the pool in time to see the water give a ripple that didn't come from Jason falling in, and then a splash as a hand rises above the water. Then there's another long moment where it sinks back under the surface. I have to hold back the urge to dive in and pull Jason out from inside its green depths. I  _can't_ , he has to get out himself.

Jason breaks the water, his head rising out of it with wide,  _bright_  eyes and an open mouth, and he drags in air in a gasp I can see from here, almost slipping back underneath the water. He stays up, barely, and he  _screams_. Long, loud, a shrieking sound of pain that makes my heart speed a bit without my approval or control. He sounds like he's in  _agony_ , and having just been in there myself I think I understand why. At least some of it.

Waking up to that feeling, without warning or any kind of idea what's going on, must be terrifying.

Jason surges for the edge of the pool — he looks fast; I can't have gotten out that fast, right? — and at Ra's' brief nod, I head to intercept where he's going to be. Jason claws his way out. I can see him shaking, trembling, eyes wide and too  _bright_  of a green. They should be much more blue, with only a faint tinge of green, not this bright shade that's eaten all the rest of the color in his eyes. He looks up at me, green liquid dripping from his hair and from the corners of his mouth, and he  _snarls_.

His lips pull back, baring teeth, and his eyes narrow sharply as he makes a sound that is inarticulate rage,  _fear,_  and  _pain_. I'm not fully prepared when he leaps at me, his bare feet somehow finding sturdy purchase on the wet floor to push off of, but training takes over before I can fully think about it. His skin is wet beneath my hands — the towel falling to the floor — as I slip to the side of his grasping, clawing reach. I take his arm at the shoulder and elbow and use his own momentum to spin and slam him down to the floor in a pin that by all rights should end fatally, or with a broken arm. I'm careful not to do that to him, to hold back my training to keep it as  _just_ a pin.

I twist his shoulder inwards, setting myself up kneeling over his back, straddling his waist. Only then do I risk releasing his shoulder and letting him flip over beneath me. He glares up at me, teeth still bared and then  _snapping_  at my hands. He reaches up, fingers clawing at my skin in a way that doesn't have the  _slightest_  trace of training or skill behind it — proof more than anything else that the pit has him — and I grab his wrists and pin them down beside his head.

" _Jason,_ " I say, staring down at him as he writhes and struggles with a strength that's actually more than mine. He's  _stronger_  than me, and it occurs to me the only reason I can hold him down like this, without a really effective pin, is because he's not in his right mind. "Jason,  _listen_  to me."

He gives another angry, pained  _sound,_  jerking against my hold and nearly getting free, until I angle my weight to press down a little more effectively against his hips and down on his wrists. There's nothing of  _Jason_  in his eyes, just bright, insane,  _anger_  — which I suppose is Jason in its own way — and the clear pressing desire to cause  _pain_.

I pitch my voice low, not looking up to see where Ra's is even though I want to, even though I honestly don't know precisely where he is. "Jason,  _listen_. There's this thing inside you, and it hurts, I  _know,_  but I also know you're still in there. You are the most stubborn person I know, you survived  _Bruce_  without breaking, do  _not_  let this take you." Something flashes, flickers in his eyes at the mention of Bruce's name, and his snarl falters a little bit. "Come back, Jason. Nothing was ever going to control you again, remember? Come  _back_."

His head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut in a grimace that's still half snarl, and then they snap open and he looks up at me. " _Dick?_ " he asks, in a voice that's rough, and vulnerable, and sounds like he's fighting to force it through his teeth. He probably is.

"It's just me, Jason. You can do this, I promise." He jerks against my hold, and the slight blue tint to his eyes vanishes when he realizes that he's pinned down. He snarls again, snaps teeth up at me, and  _writhes_. I watch for a moment, before doing what might be one of the least safe, least  _intelligent_  things I've ever done.

I let go.

His hands go for my throat, and I prepare to fight him off, but they detour on the way there and clench down on my shoulders instead. Hard,  _more_  than enough to bruise and with his nails digging into my flesh, but at least not trying to strangle me. Why did I never realize Jason had gotten quite  _this_  strong? I wasn't sparring with him but I should have seen the muscle, I should have seen that with his kind of frame of  _course_  he would be physically stronger than me.

I lower my hands to rest against his sides, letting him hold on to me and weathering the pain silently. It's not bad, and he's not doing any real damage, so it doesn't matter. Of  _course_  it doesn't matter.

He shivers and jerks when my fingers and palms ease over his heaving ribs, eyes flashing up to meet mine for a moment before squeezing shut again. He curls, his shoulders rising off the ground, the muscles of his stomach trembling in effort and protest at holding him up. I can see the tendons in his neck standing out from the strain, and feel the tension in everything of his that I'm touching. Every muscle he has is wound tight,  _fighting_ , and I lightly, as gently as I'm capable of, work my fingers against his ribs in something that I think is close to a stroke, or a massage. Just something,  _anything_ , to remind him that I'm here.

He gives a low sound of pain, fingers somehow tightening even further on my shoulders for a moment before loosening. He breathes a little easier, a little less frantically, and then I see and feel him transition into one of the breathing counts that are so deeply ingrained into my patterns that I don't even  _notice_  doing them anymore. I can feel his muscles ease, just a little, and he lets himself slowly relax back against the stone floor. Finally, after long,  _long_  minutes, he releases the grip on my shoulders and lets his fingers drag down my arms to rest near my elbows.

His eyes open, and though there's still green it's more natural now, and it plays background to the blue. His eyes aren't quite the same as they were, but if you didn't know him before it's no longer obvious to see that something isn't right. He swallows thickly, shuddering, and pulls his gaze down from the ceiling to meet my eyes.

"What—?" There's a hitch in his voice, and he pauses to clear his throat before starting again. "What happened?" he asks. I can see that he's still running on some adrenaline. His eyes are a touch too wide, and there's still a fair amount of tension in his muscles, but he has it under control. "I don't—"

He goes very still, eyes widening a little farther, and then his hands snap up to his own throat, fingers exploring the smooth skin under his jaw with frantic desperation. Checking — and I have to swallow back guilt and a sick clench in my gut at the thought — for a mark of the fatal stab up through his throat and into his head. There's only smooth skin there now, no trace that he ever died or was ever even wounded.

"Dick?" he asks, and there's a note to his voice that sounds like fear, like uncertainty. "I remember,  _pain_ , and… and, the  _Owl_. What the hell happened?"

I increase the pressure of my touch just a little before raising my hands to gently trace down over Jason's arms, to wrap my hands around his. "You're alright, I  _promise_."

His fingers, pulled away from his own throat, clench over mine, and he shakes his head. "That's not an  _answer_ ," he says with a slight growl, holding my gaze.

I tilt my head a little, considering. I thought about what I was going to say to Jason, of course I did, but that kind of thinking didn't really prepare me in the way that I wanted it to. Jason always manages to blow my preparations out of the water. Not always in bad ways, but still.

"It's been four months," I tell him, softly, and there's something like panic that blooms sharp in his eyes, along with a faint flare and increase of green. "You died, Bruce took me to Arkham. Ra's and Roy just got me out a couple of days ago, and we brought you back with the Lazarus Pit."

"I was  _dead?_ " Jason says, with disbelief, and then a thick shudder shakes him. "That—" His teeth clench, and he gives a sharp little bark of laughter. "That explains a lot about this, this…" His head tilts back, throat arching. "How this  _feels_ ," he manages.

"You'll be alright, Jason," I say, again, waiting until his eyes come back to meet mine to continue. "We used the Lazarus Pit, that's what you're feeling. It burns, it feels like there's something stinging inside of you, right?" Jason gives a short, pained nod. "Like there's this layer of it between you and your skin, like your body isn't really yours. It's in your head, whispering and singing and  _screaming_."

Jason inhales sharply, another shudder shaking his shoulders. "How do you know that?" he demands.

"It's been four months," I repeat, quietly. There's no need to tell him exactly what Bruce had planned for me, or what he did. Maybe later, when we're past this first part. For now, he can assume that I was, essentially, a dead man walking at that point, without any kind of hope for actually surviving. I really shouldn't have even lived that long, especially in Arkham, after Jason's death, but I doubt Jason is coherent enough to put it all together right at the moment. I'll fix whatever he thinks later. "I wasn't in the best of condition, Ra's needed me back up to full strength to help you."

"You were in the pit?" Jason asks, focusing in on my gaze like I'm suddenly the  _only_  thing in the world that matters. I nod, and his fingers clench down hard enough on my hands to hurt.

"I understand, Jason," I say, instead of wincing, pulling my hands away, or anything else that I could do. "You'll be alright, I promise. We both know that you're stronger than I am, and I got through the madness of the pit, so I'm sure you can control it as well. You'll be alright."

Jason lets go of me, bracing his arms on the floor and pushing up, and I shift back to allow him the space to sit up. He hesitantly reaches towards me, his fingers brushing against the skin of my sides, tracing along the lines of the scars I still have left. "It healed you," he says, with what sounds like faint awe, leaving my scars to touch the smooth skin that now covers a majority of my chest.

"Healed us," I correct quietly. His hands are leaving faint trails of liquid over my skin, from the pit-water still on him, but our struggle already got me fairly wet anyways, so I don't mind. I'll be pleased when we make it upstairs, and I can take a shower and get every last trace of the unpleasant, lingering reminder off of me, but I can bear it until then.

Jason's gaze drops to his own chest, briefly, and the comparative lack of scars. He didn't have ones that were as bad as some of mine — which is most of what's left on me — so his chest is mostly smooth, with only the occasional small stretch of scar tissue to break it up. He almost looks like a normal person.

He leans forwards, trembling faintly and pressing up against my chest. His head tucks down against my shoulder, and his hands slip back around my sides to loop his arms around my waist. His grip isn't tight, and his soaked hair is leaking trails of the pit-water down my back, but there's something warm and pleased in my chest that overrules all the rest of my thoughts. I raise my own hands, wrapping them around Jason's shoulders and back, and letting one come up to gently cradle the back of his skull.

I look up, flicking my gaze around the room, and find Ra's still near the door. He meets my eyes for a brief moment, and then nods and turns to leave. Jason flinches, his head jerking up at the sound of the stone door scraping open. He stays tense and still, staring past my head at Ra's, until it scrapes closed again. His breath is sharp, fast, and I give a tiny little tug at his hair to get him to focus back on me.

I realize, after I'm flat on my back with my head ringing from impact with the stone and Jason crouched over me, that it probably wasn't the best of ideas. His eyes are wide, hands clenched down over my wrists and pinning them in a reversal of how I pinned him down earlier, and there's some mixture of fear and anger in his eyes that I don't quite understand. But his eyes are still mostly blue, so it's still  _Jason_  behind his gaze.

He swallows, his fingers clenching down around my wrists, and instead of breaking out in all of the ways that I could, I let him work through whatever it is that I did. His head shakes, and the anger fades to pain that looks so  _raw_  and unguarded that it stuns me.

" _Don't_ ," he says, almost  _pleading_. "That's,  _fuck_ … That's the last thing I remember is his  _hand_  in my hair."

"I'm  _sorry_ ," is what comes out of my mouth, before I can even think beyond the sudden guilt that blindsides me. Jason shudders, his grip loosening but not entirely releasing me.

Why didn't I think of that? The last thing that Jason would have remembered is Bruce yanking his head back to drive the knife in, before waking up in the agony of the pit. How could I do something to remind him of that last moment? I shouldn't have ever even needed to be reminded, I  _should_  have known that.

Jason shakes his head again, staring down and letting my wrists go after a few moments. "No, it's—" He swallows. "It's fine, it's alright."

"It's  _not_ ," I counter, reaching up to gently touch the side of his face. He grits his teeth, letting his head hang, but leans just a little bit into my touch. "This shouldn't have ever happened, Jason, I'm  _sorry_."

His next inhalation is a little shaky, and hitches for a moment before he lets it out again. " _Dick_ ," he says quietly, not adding anything else onto my name but saying it with enough of a mixture of feelings that it feels like a confession of  _something_  all on its own. I can't totally figure out what it is, but it's something I'm sure I should know, that it stings that I  _don't_.

He leans a little farther down over me, back bending and eyes squeezing shut. I can see the tremble of his shoulders, feel it where his thighs are pressed against my sides. His breath isn't quite even anymore, and then he drags in a breath that's sharper than the rest and makes a little choked noise. His eyes stay shut, but he shudders violently and leans into my touch. A  _tear_ eases its way from the corner of his left eye, slipping down his skin along his cheek, and then a second follows from his right. That one slips down, against my hand.

He's  _crying_.

My breath comes a little short, surprise freezing me, but then I push up off the ground. I wrap my arms back around him, around his shoulders and careful not to touch his head, and I can feel him shaking against me. It hurts to think that what  _I_ did hurt him this badly, or at least opened the way to this much pain. This is  _my_ fault.

"I'm sorry, Jason," I repeat, holding him as his hands slowly find purchase against my sides, and his face presses into my shoulder. "You'll be alright, I  _promise_. I'll  _never_ let anyone do this again."

Jason shakes his head a little bit, fingers clenching down over my sides with enough pressure to feel, but not enough to hurt. " _We'll_ ," he says into my shoulder, with a sharp hitch to his voice. " _We'll_  be alright, Dick.  _Us_."

I let my head lower to mirror his position, pressing my forehead into his shoulder. "Us," I agree, "always."


	18. Too Close to the Bullseye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this chapter starts out a bit weird. We're back to Roy this chapter, and there's a bit of backstory that needs to be explained. So, the first part of this goes back to that fight with Owlman, to make a few things clear, and then moves on to after.

My vision is fuzzy, fading in and out along with my hearing. I swallow back what tastes suspiciously like blood. People are talking around me, but I can only stir with a groan and slowly blink my eyes open all the way, out of the slits they'd become.

God, I had no  _idea_  what it felt like to get kicked that hard. I can't fully see out of my left eye, it's hazy and spotted with black, and even the rest of my sight is still pretty extremely blurry. It gets a little better every time I blink, which I'm doing rapidly, but it takes me what feels like a long time to get it clear enough that I can even think of moving my head.

Which comes just in time for a  _scream_ to cut through my flickering awareness, and I jerk up in reaction which is an  _awful_ idea.

My sight slips sickeningly sideways as I collapse the — maybe — a foot that I'd managed to rise, and nausea rises sharply in my stomach. I suck in a sharp breath, which comes with a lot more  _pain_  than I thought it would. My right side — I think my hands are still over that, and they feel wetter than they should — aches and burns, a little like I've been stabbed and— Oh shit,  _did_  I get stabbed?

I think I might remember something like that. I think I remember trying to shoot the Owl, and some very sudden very sharp  _pain_ on my side, but I don't know what the hell happened. I do remember that the ache in very nearly the center of my chest is from a kick.  _Damn_ , Owlman has some really nasty boots. Boots that are now familiar with the side of my skull. Oh,  _Christ_ , do I hurt.

But what was the  _scream?_

I manage to get my eyes open all the way at least, and turned down to stare at where I'm pretty sure the noise came from. The sight nearly puts me into a damn panic attack. Owlman is standing there, with the smallest sneer I think I've ever seen on another person, but otherwise totally blank and unreadable under the mask. Those eyes are creepy as all hell, and right now? Really fucking scary since he's  _got a knife shoved up through Jason's jaw_.

He lets go, and Jason crumples to the ground in a heap. I don't need to see the total lack of movement in his chest to know that he's dead. His head is turned towards me, where he's fallen, and his eyes are still open — blue-green, but glazed and empty — but the obvious indicator that Jason is very seriously fucking  _dead_  is the  _knife_  still buried under his chin, that Owlman just  _left_ there. There's blood leaking from the wound and across his pale skin. It's dark red, and the  _terror_  of it is enough to stop me noticing the slowly spreading stain on his right arm for a bit, and the backwards angle his elbow is at.

The Owl moves, and I jerk my gaze over to him as he steps over Jason's body and towards the  _other_ body on the floor.  _Dick_. He's still alive, even with my shifting mess of vision I can see his chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths as the Owl shoves him onto his back with one foot. It's sick and  _wrong_ that all I can think, as the Owl smirks down at D, is I'm glad he's not paying any attention to  _me_.

_Yet_.

"Interesting when people don't do what you expect them to, isn't it, Richard?" the Owl asks. His head tilts a bit to one side like Dick is a particularly interesting specimen pinned down to a table, which  _holy fuck_ is  _not_ supposed to be an image I can imagine. "We're going to have some  _fun_ , Talon," he says, smirk growing a bit wider, and I can see D's breathing hitch. Then it slows and evens out, and his head lolls to the other side, away from me.

He's unconscious. The Owl fucking  _turns to me_.

I shift in sudden, total  _panic_ , dragging myself off the ground and back a few steps. The pain in my side and the swirl of my  _everything_  stops me after that, half propped up on one arm. My head hangs low where I'm half on my side, and I shakingly raise the other hand — my left — from where it's clamped over my side to look at the gloved hand. I think, I'm pretty sure, that it's soaked in blood. It's times like these that I really wish my gloves weren't the same color; it makes it hard to check how much I'm bleeding.

"Aware again, Harper?" the Owl asks, in a voice just about as cold as ice cubes in a glass of alcohol. I drag my gaze back up. He's got a thin sneer on his face, his hands loose at his sides and partially hidden by the fall of his metal cloak. I find myself swallowing to try and quell the total panic eating me alive.

Oh  _fuck_  am I about to die. Dick is unconscious — totally going to be dragged off to be tortured somewhere — Jason is dead, and the Owl is looking at me like I'm about as important as a smear on his boot. But maybe like, a really offending smear?

_Gum_. I'm fucking  _gum_  on his boot.

The pain is making me shake — or maybe the fear; yeah, that could be it too — and I'm barely keeping my head up far enough to keep my gaze focused on the man that's going to kill me. I have to wonder  _how_.

Is he going to put a knife in  _my_  skull like he did Jason's? Am I even  _important_  enough to warrant him killing me himself, or am I only really worth a dropped cannister of poison or something? He could just put his boot on my throat and  _crush_  it, or put a little  _less_ pressure so I suffocate under it. He could kill me  _so_  many ways, and I bet I don't even  _know_  most of them.

Where the  _fuck_  is my bow?!

My gaze flicks down — still seriously blurred — and finds the vague shape of my bow. Yeah, over  _there_ , about half a foot away from the Owl and Dick. Well I've got… What do I have?

I  _saw_  how well a gun worked out for Jason, and I  _really_  saw how well a  _knife_  worked for him. I don't think I have a damn thing on me that could actually even  _faze_  the Owl. Especially since he's staring down at me like I'm gum, and I can barely even focus my vision enough to see what the hell is going on.

He steps forward, over me, and I fight the urge to reach for a knife or anything else I have on me. I'm not suicidal, I'm not suicidal — he crouches down, over my legs —  _fuck_  I'm  _not suicidal._

He reaches forward, taking my chin in his fingers — the claws at the ends rake over my skin in a way that is  _totally_  purposeful, and leave a faintly wet feeling on my skin that I think might be Jason's blood — and tilting my head to one side. The fucked, spotty side of my vision is turned towards him now, and my breath comes  _painfully_  fast as I lose pretty much all sight of him.

Okay,  _not_  hyperventilating. That would be a  _shit_  way to go down, even with the excuses of these injuries.  _Breathe_  Roy, fucking  _breathe_.

He makes a softly amused huff of breath — the same one I identified him with, months ago and before my life totally fell to shit — and lets me go. I slowly, cautiously, turn my head back so I can see him again. He's smirking, a tiny little twist of lips that I swear to  _god_  I've seen on my Talon's face before too. Amused, but about to  _hurt_ someone.

My throat is clenched shut, I couldn't beg even if I thought it would do anything, but as his gauntleted fingers — on the other hand — dip into the wound at my side I find out that I can  _scream_. I'm pretty sure his claws grate against bone, one of my ribs, and I make a little choked sound that I'm pretty sure I've never made before, even during my thigh or any of the  _hundreds_  of other things I've suffered.

My back hits the floor, my arm not able to hold me up any more, and I grasp uselessly at his arm with my other hand. I get a calculated strike to my elbow that — in some fucking scary way I don't understand — makes it go limp, and I twitch and shudder and swallow down the taste of blood as I lie there, until finally — minutes, maybe? — his hand pulls away from my side a little bit. Or at least, his fingers stop exploring how far into my side they can sink through the torn flesh.

"I don't appreciate you slipping away from my surveillance, Roy," the Owl says quietly, like he's talking about some casual fucking bit of conversation. I do my best to focus myself so I can hear what the  _hell_  he's saying. "And I do not appreciate you enabling my two misguided weapons."

I'm pretty sure I whimper in response.

He takes my chin in his hand again, this time painting what I'm totally sure is my own fucking blood across my skin. He drags my head around so I can look at him through the undamaged eye. His mouth is a flat line, but as I watch him, still shuddering in pain, one corner of his lips raises in a tiny sneer.

"You're not worth my  _time_ , Harper," he says, and I have never been so damn  _relieved_  to be called  _useless_. He lets me go, standing over me, and carelessly turns his back on me. I watch him, blearily, pick Dick up off the ground, into his arms in a bridal carry. My sorta-friend's head is hanging limply backwards, exposing the bruising flesh around his throat, and one arm hangs equally limply. His left, and I can see the unnatural angle his wrist is twisted at.

It occurs to me, as the Owl heads off without another glance at either me or Jason's corpse, that I'm getting off  _easy_. That this is a fucking  _lucky_  fate for me. I'm getting  _left alive_ , and I'm not even crippled. Injured, yes, but all my parts still work and nothing is missing.

That's a fucking  _miracle_.

Distantly, I hear the door of the bunker close. I try to get up. My arm barely supports my weight, my vision spins in a way that makes me sick, and I barely even get to my knees before I have to lean over and throw up onto the floor beside me. The pain is literally breathtaking, and I brace on the ground with my right arm as my stomach heaves out what's in it and my side sends knives of pain spiking into the rest of my chest. My left arm hangs uselessly at my side.

I stay there for a  _lot_ longer than I should — because  _fuck_ what if Owlman told Oliver I'm down here? — but eventually I drag myself up. Getting to my feet is a study in  _insanity_ , but I do manage it after a while. I'm swaying because my sense of balance is just plain old  _fucked_ , but I'm standing. I clasp my right hand over my side, in some kind of screwed attempt to try holding my own blood inside me, and with a glance down at Jason's body I turn and head towards the jet. First, I need to get the doors open, and I need to plot in the directions and coordinates that D gave me before all this.

_Fuck_ , I hope Dick dies quickly. He couldn't take much more abuse in the condition he's in, right? He'll die fast. Yeah, totally.

Getting up the ramp seems like an impossible challenge, but with a fair bit of luck, and a slippery but  _desperate_ grasp at the edge of the entrance, I make it in. Sitting down in my pilot chair — the one on the right, because I was literally Oliver's right-hand man,  _hah_ — is like I'm crashing into bed after an all-night patrol. It takes a whole lot of my questionable willpower not to slump over the jet's controls and pass out then and there. I drag myself together, looking down and then — with a shudder and a quick prayer to whoever the  _fuck_ might be listening — angling my face so that it's just the eye I can actually  _see_ out of that's pointed towards the console. The black and/or blurred part of my vision is really of no help to me at all.

Letting go of my side is hard, but when I do I reach for the controls. Most of it is touch screens or voice command now — Oliver got fed up with actual  _controls_ a while ago — and for autopilot, that's all you need. Oliver could fly the jet manually if he had to, but he didn't like doing it, lazy fucker.

I start by opening the doors in front of the jet that lead to the runway out, and then punch in the coordinates for Ra's al Ghul's mountaintop stronghold. I leave it blinking a confirmation at me, and lean back in the chair to catch my breath.

What  _now?_

I can go, sure, but what the hell are really my chances without Dick, or Jason? Somehow I don't think my word is exactly a well respected or accepted thing in hero communities, no matter how much D was sure I was 'welcome'. Sure, maybe at  _their_ backs, but on my own? Not liking my chances so much.

Oh and it gets  _worse_. D's  _gone_ , and Owlman's tracker will still be active on the jet, so I can't go  _hide_ anywhere either.  _Fuck_. I could leave and just  _book_ it somewhere, sans jet, but I'm pretty damn sure that I've got the concussion from hell. I'd bet there might be some actual  _damage_ too, if not to my head at least to my side. Heading out on my own probably isn't a good idea  _either_. Am I seriously  _stuck_ going to Ra's al Ghul's?

I think I  _am_. Oh that's just  _great_.

Well Owlman's damned probing might have been painful as fuck but — I lower my head, craning to see down at my injured side — I'm also pretty sure that the wound is mostly  _just_ painful, and probably isn't going to kill me real quickly. Once the jet's on autopilot I can probably patch it up just fine on my own. Or, you know, enough so I don't pass out from blood loss. I've had  _enough_ of doing that, thanks.

So Dick gone, Jason dead—

What the hell am I doing with Jason's body? I mean, it'd be a hell of a surprise for Oliver to walk in on when he gets up — if Owlman didn't warn him, and I should fucking  _move,_ whatever else I'm doing — but it feels kinda,  _wrong_  to just leave it there.

Hmm… Well, it might actually be good proof to have with me. If I show up beaten all to hell, and with Jason's body, maybe Ra's al Ghul actually believes this whole story? And hey, maybe he'd appreciate having Jason's body if he spent enough time training him. I've really never had anybody die on me — I was kinda young to remember much when my Dad died — so I'm not real sure about the whole grieving thing, but maybe?

Dick 'dying' as Talon  _so_ doesn't count, and I didn't  _grieve_. I just killed a lot of people.

Alright, I guess that counts as grieving, sorta.

Okay, so Jason's body comes with me, and then I get the hell out of here. Oh  _Christ_ , that means I have to get it  _up the ramp_.

…

I'm so  _fucked_.

* * *

The bowstring stretches back, pulling smoothly and without a sound, and I bring it all the way back to my cheek. I take a single moment to breathe in, aim, and then release the arrow. The string snaps forward, the distinctive but fairly quiet twang of it reaching my ears in a way that's intimately familiar. I eye the target on the other side of the room, and the arrow buried in its cloth and straw throat. Then I bite down on the inside of my cheek as I tilt my head and stare at it.

Yeah, good shot I guess. Whatever.

I draw another arrow from the quiver over my shoulder and idly fit it to the bow. I take a second shot at the target, aiming low and watching with no real satisfaction as it sinks neatly into the target's crotch. I reach for another arrow on automatic, and without really thinking about it I fill the target full of them over a few minutes. Then the target to the left, and then the one to the right.

I blink when my hand only reaches empty air, and huff out an annoyed breath as I lower it back to my side and start for the targets. When I get there I find, to my irritation, that I might have used a little more strength than necessary for the distance. The arrows are all the way through the targets, and buried into the wood frame behind it.  _Great._

I set my bow down at the feet of the targets, and get to wrenching the arrows out one by one. I get about halfway through before I hear the door open. I glance up briefly, pulling at a particularly stubborn arrow, and then look  _back_ up at the figure in the doorway.

_Jason_. Oh Jesus is it good to see him up and about again. I mean,  _Christ_ , I think the last time I saw him was dragging his corpse up into the jet after Owlman's ambush. After that, once I somehow — not even joking, I nearly crashed the jet on  _autopilot_  at least three times — got to Ra's' in one piece and the hero took the body, I really didn't see him again. 'In stasis' was all I got told, and that really doesn't mean a damn thing in our kind of a world.

It's so damn good to see him on his feet again and, you know, not  _dead_. Yeah, not dead is a good state of being.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks, standing in the doorframe and flicking his gaze around the room like he expects to find ninjas in a corner somewhere. Okay, alright, I guess that's  _really_  not that insane an idea here in Ra's al Ghul's stronghold. Ninjas kinda  _are_  everywhere.

"Sure, yeah," I answer, and he edges inside and shuts the door to the training room behind him. He heads over to me where I'm still yanking arrows out of the targets, and starts pulling them from the target I haven't started on yet. He works silently, collecting arrows under one arm, eyes fixed on the ripped apart straw. I study him out of the corner of my eye, trying to do it without him noticing. Without an  _ex-Talon_  noticing. Yeah, that's gonna work out  _great_.

The weird thing is, it  _does_. Alright, that's one hell of a level of unobservant for someone trained by both Owlman  _and_ Ra's al Ghul. Something is very much not right with Jason.

"You're kinda down for a guy that just got resurrected," I point out, and he flinches a little bit like he'd forgotten I was even there. Woah, okay, yeah. Seriously conflicted ex-Talon, right here. He yanks another arrow out with a little more force than is really necessary, and turns to me to drop them in the quiver hanging at my back. He doesn't meet my eyes.

"And you're pretty low for a guy that just got one of his 'friends' back," Jason counters, putting a weird twist on the word. I snort before even thinking about it and flash him a bright grin.

"Me? I'm  _fine_ , totally good." I'm lying through my  _damn_ teeth, but whatever. No one needs to know about my problems, they're pretty small when you compare them to the guy that died and the guy that spent four months in an insane asylum turned metahuman prison. Oh yeah, and full of inmates with a personal grudge against anyone who ever wore the Talon suit. He hasn't brought it up yet — not that D really  _talks_ about shit like this — but I'm sure my ex-Talon had  _lots_ of fun in there. He was pretty much in pieces when we went out and rescued him.

Jason's eyes flick sideways to meet mine, and then pointedly to the targets next to us. "You're shooting targets in a room that's — complete maximum — forty feet wide."

I don't let the grin fade, pulling another arrow from inside my target's elbow. "And?" I ask, with a practiced, carefree shrug. Jason raises an eyebrow and… there's no anger in his eyes. Not a damn trace. Alright, something is  _seriously_  wrong with him. I mean, it's kind of fucked up for me to be gauging how screwed my friend is by how angry he's  _not_ , but that's just the way Jason is. He's always at least a little angry, or at least he's putting up a front of it. Right now he just looks… kinda dull? Like he's numbed out.

It's weird, and honestly it's kinda freaking me out.

"You could make that shot in your sleep," he says flatly, depositing another few arrows into my quiver.

"Sometimes it's not about the  _challenge_ , Jaybird," I say, deflecting my  _ass_ off, "it's just about the movement."

"You think I haven't done that?" he asks, almost disbelieving. "Yeah, thanks Roy, I can recognize when someone's doing something just to  _move_. You don't have to think if you're moving, right?" There's a little bite in his tone this time, the tiniest hints of irritation and sarcasm, and it says something about how traumatically  _fucked_  the lot of us are that it makes me a little relieved to hear the inflections.

The other part, the actual  _words_  to his statement, feel a little bit like somehow Jason's managed to pick up on that scary-as-hell thing that the Owl does. The one that makes you feel like you've got targets painted on all the secrets you're supposed to have, and he's idly flinging darts at them while he talks. Basically, like I've got a fucking  _giant_ sign on my chest that says 'aim here to neutralize speaking abilities.'

I swallow, my hand stilling on the shaft of the last arrow in the target. I'm not that obvious right? I mean, it's not like just anyone can look at me and go 'oh yeah, he's hiding something.' Right? It's totally just Jason being an ex-Talon and therefore  _scarily_ perceptive.  _Or_ , just Jason knowing exactly what I'm doing because  _he's_ done it.

I'm good,  _totally—_ And I'm lying through my  _teeth_  to probably the only friend I have in the world apart from Dick.  _Fuck_.

I shove out a sigh, yanking the arrow out a  _whole_ lot more violently than I need to. It kind of feels good. "You tell me yours I'll tell you mine," I offer, turning to lean against the target and face him completely. There's four more arrows in his target, and he stares down at them like they're the answer to all of life's mysteries. His brow drops down in a small furrow, and he reaches out and pulls one from inside the target with a noise that's frustration, but also sounds suspiciously  _lost_  and kind of desperate. Like, scarily so. I don't think I've heard Jason sound like that before.

He spins the arrow in his fingers, and then looks up at me and raises his right shoulder in a small shrug. "I was dead for four months," he says, still in that faintly numbed out voice. "Do I need more reason than that?"

"Not really," I answer, leaning into the target a little more firmly when it doesn't collapse back against the wall behind it under my weight. I think they must be bolted to the floor or something. Granted, the straw is not real comfortable where it's poking through the holes and against my bare arm. Small discomforts, whatever. "But you've got one. Don't bullshit a bullshitter, right? We're all pretty fucked up, Jaybird, and it might be screwed but it's just how we are. So what's  _really_  going through your head?"

He rolls his eyes and yanks another arrow out. "Fine,  _ass_." He shoots me a small glare — yeah, it's totally fucked up how relieved that insult and glare makes me — and continues. "Four months, and that included all of  _August_." I don't get the significance, and I cross my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow. He gives a sound that's just plain old frustration, legitimately glaring now, and looks away from me. "So, what? Am I still eighteen, or did I turn nineteen while I was dead? What the fuck does this even make me anymore? I don't even fit in with the age I'm supposed to be."

_Oh_ , I get it. Alright, yeah, that's a legitimate reason for a weirdly numb Jason. Mysteries of the universe indeed, it must be weird to have to nix out four months of your whole existence, and include the month that you were supposed to get older. Man, this fits onto that list of questions that only apply to the messed up community of masks. Seriously, where the  _fuck_ does this even fit into conversation?

"Are we talking legally, or spiritually?" I ask, tilting my head a bit and squinting at him. "Cause legally I'm pretty sure you still count as a year older if no one declared you dead, but you're going to have to find someone else for all that spiritual crap. I try not to think about that kind of shit."

He actually smirks, easing just a little, and gives another roll of his eyes that feels a little easier than his last one. Yeah, jokes for the  _win_. I am a  _master_  at getting people to calm down by making them laugh. Practice, skill, and a whole lot of natural talent.

"Yeah, that's because you're about as spiritually aware as a damn  _rock_ ," he says, then shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I legally exist, I don't know what the Owl did to the records I think I remember having. No clue." He pulls out the third and fourth arrows in quick succession, then looks up to meet my eyes. "But do I just, move my birthday to like, December? Shift the time so my actual age still matches up? I don't think there's a guideline for this kind of stuff."

"You're  _so_  asking the wrong person," I point out. "If I was going to give you any kind of advice it would just be to forget it. Keep what you've always had, leave the rest of this shit behind and just be you. I guess if you really want to feel 'matched up' you can change things, but I'm pretty sure there's no point."

"You're totally fucking useless," Jason says with a snort, and I offer another grin.

"It's a skill," I say, coloring my tone with pride.

He gives another snort and reaches past me — I admit, it totally takes a fair bit of concentration to not pull away from the arrows coming at my face — and over my shoulder to tuck the last of the arrows into the quiver.

"So? Your turn, Roy."

Shit, right. This whole 'I'll show mine if you show yours' thing does actually go both ways. Damn.

I wince, and look away from Jason's mostly good humored eyes. I'm really not fooled, I know that past the front of anger he might be a fucked up kid — nineteen, really?  _Christ_ , I'm too young to be feeling old — but he's still a decent person at heart. I'm almost totally sure that's true. Almost. Me, on the other hand, or D? Mmmm… Maybe not, harder to say. Like I give a fuck if anyone thinks I'm 'good' anyway. I  _so_  never claimed to be anything even remotely resembling a hero.

"Roy," Jason says, an edge to his voice that kind of demands an answer, and I roll my eyes in mimicry of his earlier rolling.

"Yeah, yeah." My hands clench down on my arms in memory of the  _shit_  that I'm about to tell Jason. I haven't even told D yet, though granted for the last week or so — since we rescued Dick, and then brought Jason back from the freaking  _dead_  — I really haven't had a chance to talk to either of them. Dick on pain medication really wasn't much of a conversationalist, which is damn impressive considering how uncommunicative he  _usually_  is. I actually thought the medications would loosen him up a little bit. Instead he just got fuzzy and quiet. It wasn't nearly as entertaining as I thought it would be, honestly.

Once Jason was back they both pretty much vanished into a room and totally locked themselves away. I'm pretty sure they ate, since Jason definitely doesn't look starved. I got pretty firmly told by Ra's to leave them both alone, in that not-really-ordering tone of voice that makes it clear that if you don't do what he says things won't go well for you. I hate that voice, a lot. So I really haven't gotten a chance to talk to either of my sorta-teammates.

Say, we should totally figure out a  _name_  for the three of us. Everybody else has got names for their teams, we should have one too. Jason's starting to look pretty impatient.

"So you remember the fight, right?" I realize it's a  _dumb question_ when it's about halfway out of my mouth, and then I feel like total shit when Jason's jaw clenches down and he looks a bit like he just got gutted. "Okay, yeah, nevermind. So I got hurt, pretty bad, and I managed to get you and me back here but that was just about it. I'm alright now, but it was pretty bad."

"You've gotten hurt before," Jason says, and the lingering little touch of pain in his voice just drives the point home a little further. Damnit do I need to  _watch_ the fucking things I say.

"Yeah," I say, with half a laugh, "but that's not it." I swallow, unable to keep a grin on my face — which is kind of a new experience for me — but forcing myself to hold Jason's gaze. "Ra's put me on painkillers," I force through my teeth, feeling the sting of the fact like it  _just happened_. "He put me on  _fucking_ morphine."

You would  _think_ that it's fucking common sense not to put a recovering drug addict  _back on his damn drugs_. Like,  _Christ_ , how  _thick_ do you have to be to not see the problem in that? It's not like Ra's al Ghul didn't  _know_ , the Owl made damn sure pretty much the whole  _community_ knew what happened to me, he just  _chose_ to totally ignore it. I could have handled the pain, that really wouldn't have been so bad, but waking up already floating, already  _high?_ It was like a fucking nightmare.

Jason recoils a little bit, then he pushes out a breath through his clenched teeth, wincing. "That… Fuck. Ouch. That didn't go so well then?"

I raise one shoulder in a shrug and pull my gaze away to look up at the ceiling. "Depends on your definition, I guess. I was great up until he took me  _off_  it again and then, gee, what a surprise, the  _addict_  goes into  _withdrawal_. Son of a  _bitch_."

I can still  _fucking_  feel it. I can imagine the rush of the drug into my system, the light-headed  _bliss_  of it, the total obliteration of any and everything that made me feel even slightly in control of myself. I also remember the gut-wrenching, dragging,  _mess_  that withdrawal is.  _Real_  vividly. When you've gone through shit like that  _twice_  it kind of sticks with you, especially when one time wasn't even  _remotely_  your choice. Sure, Owlman didn't really give me a choice either, but  _I_  was the one putting the heroine in my system. I didn't feel so damn helpless against it.

This time, I had  _no_  choice. Ra's literally  _tied me to the damn bed_  to stop me from pulling the IV free or getting it the hell away from me in any other way, even after I flat out told him I wanted it  _gone_  and  _out_  of me. It felt like some kind of fucked up punishment for what I'd done, and then — in the darker moments, where I wanted it to be logical even at the expense of my own pride — it felt like what I deserved for ever  _daring_  to touch one of Ra's al Ghul's subordinates. Like it was some kind of  _justice_  to  _hurt_  me for ever thinking Jade was mine.

Speaking of people I haven't seen in a while.

"Are you clean?" Jason asks bluntly.

As fair as the question is, as  _obvious_ , it  _hurts_. That anyone would even  _think_  that I could be taken down and apart so damn easily. Not that it's necessarily a totally incorrect thought. After all, heroine  _did_  take me down, and  _damn_  if morphine didn't do it to me again. I am so  _sick_  of people not giving me choices about what goes into my own fucking body, and I am  _sick_  of people thinking the worst of me.

_Fuck_  the world, and  _fuck_  the people in it. I'm  _responsible_  damnit, I'm a decent person, and I damn well know how to handle my own shit. It is  _not my fault_  that I'm an addict, and it's  _damn_  well not my fault that it happened a second time either.

Owlman and Ra's can go off and form their own little group. The 'we ruin people's fucking lives' group.  _Screw_ them both.

"Yes," I answer, more snappily than I wanted to be but I'm  _not_  taking it back, "I'm  _clean_ , Jaybird." I drag my gaze down from the safety that is the ceiling, meeting his gaze again.

"That must have sucked," he says, instead of calling me out on my snapped words, and his frank, totally pity-free voice is… Wow, that's nice.

Jason isn't looking at me with the same pity that Ra's did, or that I could see in the other League of Shadow members' gazes as they passed by. He isn't giving me that  _look_  that's such a mixture of sympathy and  _disgust_  that I can't help but  _hate_  it and anyone who looks at me with it. Jason is just… matter of fact. No pity, no sympathy, no disgust, just frank bluntness.

"You died," I say, with a bit of incredulity that I can't get out of my voice, "and  _my_  experience sucks? What world are you living in, Jaybird?"

Jason shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, glancing down at the ripped to pieces targets. "The four months are just gone, it's not like I was aware or anything. I remember," his voice hitches, "dying, and then I was alive again. The pit sucked but, well, there really wasn't much of it on either side of the whole 'dead' part. Some pain, but nothing that I couldn't handle with a little time." He tilts his head towards me and gives half a shrug. "I  _saw_  you in withdrawal, remember? I know what you went through the first time. It can't have been any easier this time."

A shiver slips up my spine, and I snort and grin in a purely defensive, instinctive reaction. "It was worse, yeah. At least that first time I had you two, you know? Sure,  _you_  were some guy who glared and really didn't seem to like me, but I knew D, and I was pretty sure he was going to make sure I was alright. Ra's? Man,  _fuck_ that guy."

Jason raises an eyebrow, turning and leaning back against the target he's in front of. His back is to it, and I'm only leaning sideways, but it's pretty close to mimicking my position. "Yeah? Why's that?"

Right, Ra's  _trained_  Jason.

"I guess he  _likes_  you," I say, unable to help the tinge of bitterness. "Me? Not so much."

"He seems to get along with Dick well enough," Jason points out, and I bite down on my tongue to smother the tirade of totally pointless curses that want to come out of my mouth.

"Good for the two of you," I settle on,  _somehow_  managing to keep most of the bitter and sarcastic tone out of my voice.  _Most_  of it. There's still more than enough for Jason to pick up on and naturally, he does.

"Well you didn't come asking for help like we did, maybe he just doesn't trust you as much because of that?" Jason shrugs, and shakes his head. "I don't know. Fuck, I don't even know why he's helping  _me_ , except that he's got some kind of messed up idea about redeeming me or something. Total nutcase, I swear. Like—" He cuts off sharply, looking away, and I mentally add what I'm  _almost_  sure he was going to say onto the end of his bitten off sentence. In my own words, naturally.

_Like I can be redeemed._

"The blood doesn't come off that easy, right?" I ask, and he makes a sound that's half agreement and half some kind of frustration. I shrug again. "Heroes just don't get the lifestyle, I guess."

"See a kid and they have to try and save them," Jason adds on, looking back at me. "It's such totally insane  _bullshit_ , right?"

"Yeah," I agree. Jason gives a tiny little grin, and a sharp edged laugh, and then it suddenly clicks. "Hey, maybe  _that's_  why he doesn't like me," I exclaim, and one of Jason's eyebrows arches up in a way that's kinda eerily similar to Ra's' eyebrow raises.

"What's that?" he asks.

"Well, clearly," I let my arms drop out of being crossed, and lower one in a sweeping gesture to incorporate me as a whole, "I'm not in that whole 'redeemable' age where I still look even faintly like a teenager or a kid. So that whole thing just goes out the window. But, obviously, he doesn't like me because I'm just  _fine_  with who I am, and I'm not sorry about anything I've done even though  _he_ thinks I should be." I pause, considering. "Well, except for the drugs. But those weren't my fault  _either_  time."

Jason is giving me a weird look, one that almost feels a little wary. "You're not guilty about anything?" he asks, sounding completely disbelieving, and I shake my head.

"Nope. Not a damn thing. I did my job, I was  _good_  at it, and I liked the life.  _I'm_ totally fine with who I am, I don't need any hero telling me who they think I  _should_  be or that all the stuff I've done is  _evil_ or fucked up. Yeah, I know I've done some things a lot of people would condemn me for, but  _whatever_."

Jason just watches me for a few moments, and then he tilts his head in a curious-looking way. Like — I stifle a totally inappropriate giggle — a bird. "Like what?"

"I—  _What?_ " Is Jason seriously asking me the kind of fucked up things that I've done? Just,  _asking?_  Okay, I really wasn't expecting that. Usually you tell people you've done messed up things and they stop asking questions.

"What's the worst thing you've done?" Jason demands, eyes narrowing and practically pinning me with the weight of his stare. Like he thinks he can get me to answer just by looking at me hard enough which, I'll totally admit, he probably can. And will, in this case.

"I…" I narrow my eyes right back at him, then look up for a second. "Hang on, let me think about that. That's a lot of years to think through."

Or is it just the whole thing together that's the worst of it? I can't really remember doing anything, specifically, that edged up against what little morals I've got — which I  _stick_  to, damnit; there are certain things that are just plain  _off limits_  — since Oliver was generally pretty calm about things, and preferred blunt force over anything nasty. Talon, D, did some nasty things at the orders of Owlman, but that was him. I might have been back-up support, and taken out the gangs, soldiers, or metahumans with him, but I didn't actually participate in anything Owlman wanted him to do.

_I've_  done a fair amount of things over the years, on my own or on Oliver's orders. Torture, mostly. I've tortured a  _lot_  of people. But always with a reason, I've never just gone after someone because I felt like causing pain. That was  _so_  not my thing. I might have killed people, or been a little unnecessarily violent if I was in a bad mood — it's a fine line between hurting someone and sending them into shock — but that was just venting, really. I wasn't  _cruel_  about it, I don't think I've ever been  _cruel_. I just did my job, that's it.

What have I ever done that actually counts as something that heroes would straight out condemn? Well, all of it, but what specifically would they point to and say 'this is why he can't be trusted/saved/redeemed'?

"Torture?" I answer, with enough of a twist to the word to make it a question. "I guess? I've tortured a lot of people. Gang members mostly, or higher ups for criminal organizations, but there were probably some innocents in there. I've killed a lot of people, too," I amend, after another moment. Not that that's news to an  _ex-Talon_ , but it might be considered unforgivable, I guess.

Jason gives me another  _look_ , like he thinks I'm kidding. "That's it?" he asks flatly.

"What were you expecting?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and propping myself a little more securely against the target. "I was Oliver's sidekick. I killed a lot of people, sent messages to the ones that didn't get it, and took down or backed off a lot of heroes. It's not like Oliver's one of those psycho-villains that plans to poison the water supply or destroy a city or something. Keeping Star City alive and running fine was  _kind_  of important to him, since he pretty much owns it." Jason shakes his head, glancing up to the ceiling like he's asking for some kind of divine help. "Seriously, what were you expecting? What have  _you_ done?"

He meets my eyes again, and holy  _fuck_. There's something dark and  _agonized_  in his eyes that I'm pretty sure is just a memory. I don't think I have  _anything_  in all my thoughts that can make me look like that. I don't think withdrawal one  _or_  two could make me give someone a look like that. It's… He's an ex-Talon, the freaking masters of control and being a damned wall to  _everything_  — even if it's an angry wall, like Jason's — and there's not a  _damned_  thing in his face that even pretends he's hiding.

I'm not sure I want to know whatever it is he's thinking about.

"You don't have to tell me," I offer, and he snorts and looks down. A tiny shudder makes his shoulders tremble, and he shakes his head.

"Dick already knows, you might as well know too before the Owl brings it up or something." He pauses, inhaling deeply, eyes squeezing shut. I wait with about as much suspense as I think I've ever felt. His eyes open, and he drags them up, slowly, to meet my gaze again. "The worst thing  _I've_  ever done," his voice hitches again, and I can see the way his knuckles whiten as his hands clench down on his own arms, "is torture a… a six year old girl." Oh  _fuck_. "To death," he adds.

" _Why?_ " I ask, before I can think anything else. What the  _hell_  kind of reason is there to torture a kid that young? There can't be a  _justification_  for that, right? Maybe to punish the parent, but that's the kind of stuff that will  _break_  someone for life, not just punish them. Killing someone's kid is one thing — I haven't done that either, kids are usually a moral line for me — but torturing one to death? That's— Fuck that's  _brutal_. That's  _cruel_. That's  _fucked up_. That's… That's totally Owlman's style.

"Because the Owl told me to," Jason says, in a voice that sounds like he has to  _rip_  the words out of his own chest. He's got the expression to match. "I didn't  _want_  to—"

"If you  _wanted_  to," I break in sharply, "I don't think we'd be standing here. For a  _lot_  of reasons." Like, for one, someone that sadistic or just totally fucked up would never have left Owlman's side. That would be the  _perfect_ outlet for all the pain they'd want to dish out. Heaven, nirvana, take your pick. Secondly, someone that screwed up would never have been pulled out for Ra's to try 'redeeming.' I'm pretty damn sure the hero is a  _little_  bit better of a judge of character than that, his totally unrealistic goals aside. "Why did you do it?" I ask, again not realizing it's a  _stupid_  question until it's out of my mouth.

I am  _perfectly_  aware that the Owl can make just about anyone, do  _anything_. Whatever way he made Jason do something so legitimately  _awful_ , I'm sure the second Talon didn't really have a choice in it. The bastard's got his ways, after all.

"He broke everything in my left arm," Jason starts, slowly, and his gaze drops away from mine, to the floor. "Reset it. The thing he used to heal me was…  _painful_ , even after all of that. But it wasn't just the pain, it was what he was  _saying_. It's like he could see right through me, and he was so  _sure_  that I'd do what he wanted me to, and he was right. I did." He makes a sound that's  _scarily_  helpless, and shakes his head. "I'd tortured other people before, but it was so  _different_  than all the rest of them. It was the last time I really fought him about anything he wanted me to do. After that…" Jason's gaze flicks to the side, and he shrugs. "What was going to be worse than that?"

Every time Jason tells me  _anything_  about what it was like under the Owl, I end up totally rethinking my idea of what 'bad' is. Getting shot, getting dumped out on the streets, even being  _forced_  to become an addict? That's all fucking  _child's play_  compared to what Jason and Dick had to get through, and neither of them had the possibility of backing out whenever they wanted to.

_I_  could have sucked it up, gone back to Oliver, and totally denounced Jade and Lian if I wanted to. He would have taken me back, even if he didn't trust me. I'm  _totally_  sure of it. I  _never_  would have, I love both of them  _way_  too damn much, but I  _could_  have. I had the  _option_  to do it, if things got bad enough. But Jason? D?

What the hell is a Talon going to do? Politely approach Owlman when he's in a slightly less murderous mood and kindly request to be set free? Yeah, that's a  _joke_. Everybody knows the Talons don't  _choose_  to work for Owlman. I don't even think doing something that  _insane_  would get them killed. Knowing what I do about the two of them, I'm pretty sure that being that forward would just make them the focus of Owlman's attention, and get them tortured and  _broken_  until they dropped any  _thought_ of freedom.

I think that's pretty much what happened to D, when the Owl first took him.

"Yeah, that…" I swallow, legitimately  _trying_  to think of anything much worse than torturing a six year old. Yeah, there's not much. Maybe, raping the same kid? Ohhh… I really hope that's not what he meant by torture. I don't  _think_  so. I mean apart from his really public, really dangerous flings with a lot of women who either belong to other people — Superwoman — or could do a decent job of trying to kill him — Zatanna, among a  _lot_  of others — I've never really seen the Owl make any kind of a move that was sexual. At all.

"You didn't rape her, right?" But naturally, my mouth has a mind of its own.  _All the time_.

His head snaps up, and I have never been so relieved to see shock and what I'm pretty sure is  _disgust_  on someone's face.

" _Never_ ," he says, roughly. "I  _never_."

I push off the target, holding my hands up in surrender. "Woah, alright. I really didn't think you had, Jaybird." Jason's jaw clenches down, and he looks away. Cautiously, I take a step forward and reach out — making  _real_  sure he can see my hand coming, because touching a Talon that doesn't want to be touched is a damn  _deathwish_  — very gently touching his crossed arms. He watches my hand, but doesn't tell me to get it the hell away from him, which I guess is a step up from a lot of other reactions he could have had. "Hey," I start, waiting for him to look up and meet my eyes before I continue. When he does, it's kind of weird. He's leaning, not totally straight, so we're about the same height. It's  _weird_  how  _young_  he looks. "There's some things you haven't done after all," I point out, with a flash of a small grin and a small squeeze down on his arm.

He makes some kind of movement that's halfway between a flinch and just a startled shifting of position, staring at me with an expression I'm  _so_  not going to even  _try_  to figure out. Then, he huffs out a breath and gives me almost the same small grin I gave him.

"Yeah, I guess there are."

I pull my hand back —  _so_  not pressing my luck — and he straightens up off the target, letting his arms come down to hang at his sides. He looks a little better. Not quite so numbed out, anyway, and also not with that awful  _raw_  pain in his expression. God, I can't  _stand_  seeing that there.

Still, at least it's some serious proof that Jason's actually got a chance of maybe recovering. All the fucked up things he's done actually make him guilty, so he's not so totally broken to the point that Dick is. He might actually end up kind of normal.

Hah! Yeah  _right_. Alright, he might end up some traumatized bastard with PTSD living in a cave. That seems a more likely fate for  _any_  of us. After all the fucked—

_No_. On the same topic, I  _never_ needed the idea in my head that the Owl might have  _sexually_ fucked with his Talons too. He wouldn't though, right? The Owl, I mean, he likes  _women_ , right? He would never get his Talons to— He probably didn't  _touch_  them, right? Oh, I don't think I ever want to even consider the idea of how fucked up my two ex-Talons are when it comes to sex, or anything  _resembling_  sex. He likes women, and black hair, and blue eyes, right? Like…

Like Superwoman, and Zatanna, and  _both_ his Talons. Holy  _fuck_ Owlman has a  _type_. A type that  _both_ my friends slot neatly into. Oh  _fuck_.

"So, not to ruin the better mood," I start, shifting a little on my feet and watching his grin flicker a bit and then fade altogether. "I kind of just realized Owlman's got a  _type_  and uh… Fuck there's  _really_  no good way to say this." What's a decent way to ask your friend if the guy that fucked him up for life actually literally  _fucked_  him up? I can just spit it out, right? "Owlman didn't  _fuck_  you, right? Like, he didn't touch you or Grayson? 'Cause black hair, blue eyes, and that's  _just_  like Superwoman and Zatanna, and I really hadn't thought of that before. But he  _didn't_ , right, and for the love of  _god_  please shut me up?" I might ramble when I'm nervous. Maybe.

Jason's face sharply closes off, his posture becoming  _absolutely_  perfect and his lips twisting into a tiny sneer that I'm  _damn_ certain he learned from the Owl.

Oh… I think I hit a nerve. But he  _didn't_ , right? Just because Jason is getting defensive and closing himself off doesn't mean that I stumbled onto the deep, nasty secret of the Owl and his 'weapons,' right? Oh  _god_ ,  _please_  say this isn't anything more than a bad suspicion.

" _No_ ," Jason spits out, looking down at me in a way that's  _scary_  reminiscent of the way Owlman looked at me while he was kicking my ass. He turns his back, striding towards the exit, and I might get a little panicky at the thought that I just pissed off one of my only two friends.

" _Woah_ , Jason!" I hurry after him, and in one of the  _stupidest_  things I think I've ever done — considering  _my_  life, that's  _saying_  something — I grab him by his arm to try and slow him down. In my defense, I really don't think about it.

He's  _fast_. He turns, his opposite hand twisting my wrist in a way that makes me yelp in pain, and then I'm on the ground on my back and I have no  _idea_  how I got there. The quiver on my back jams me up at a weird angle, caught behind my left shoulder, and I take in a sharp breath as Jason's boot presses down across my throat. I make a noise that I'm pretty sure is somewhere close to the kind of noise you make when someone smacks you across the back of your head and you're not expecting it. Somewhere between a startled yelp and an automatic 'ouch.'

I keep my hands down, feeling the tread in the heavy duty combat boots press against my skin as I swallow. "Woah,  _Jason_ ,  _woah_. I'm sorry, alright? I was just—" Curious is a  _bad_  word to say right now, and not really right anyway. "Worried," I settle on. Yeah, that's closer to the truth.

Telling Jason that there's this mix of horror, and disgust, and  _fear_  in my stomach at the thought that maybe the Owl is willing to do things like that? Probably not a good idea. It has to have some kind of a basis, or something to do with him, or he wouldn't be reacting like this, right? This isn't some weird kind of defensiveness over me insinuating that Owlman's that screwed up, right?

Jason's foot presses down a little harder, and for a second I think I'm about to get my neck snapped over a  _misunderstanding_ , before he pulls away and backs off. I push up on my arms, at least getting high enough that my back isn't at the angle the pressure from the quiver forced it into. At least he's glaring now, and not just totally shut off — kinda like Dick usually is, which I would  _really_  like to never have happen to Jason — but I  _can_  see him shaking just a little bit. Faint trembles in his shoulders, and along the lines of his arms.

" _No_ ," he repeats. A little shakier, a lot more pissed, and maybe a little bit towards actually telling me about it. "Who the  _fuck_  do you think I am, Roy?" he demands, his hands clenching tight. I'm… I'm really not sure what kind of answer he wants from me, I'm not even sure what he thinks  _I_  think, so I settle on just letting the truth come out of my mouth in whatever form it wants to.

"I think you're an ex-Talon with a  _fucked_  up ex-mentor, and I  _really_  don't know how far he would go or if there's  _anything_ he wouldn't do. I'd like to know the kind of shit you've been through before I say something  _stupid_  and do  _this_  kind of thing to you again. That's it. Alright, Jaybird?" His eyes narrow, and he looks down at me with a hint of Dick's nearly constant studying expression. I swallow again, very slowly pushing myself up to my feet. "I  _swear_ , that's it."

He looks about half a step away from pulling one of the knives I know he's got hidden away — and I'm so tremendously  _screwed_  if he does it's not even funny; with my bow all the way back over by the targets — but he doesn't, and I manage to get all the way back to my feet without him even moving. His gaze follows me up, staying fixed around my face, but he doesn't actually do anything until I'm all the way up.

"He never touched me like that," Jason says, with a dangerous edge to his voice, "and he never had  _me_  do that to anyone else, either." There's something weird about the way he says 'me.' Not just the emphasis, like he's making sure I know that he's never hurt anyone else like that, but something about the  _way_  he says it that makes me think—

"Not you but, someone else?" I guess, and he goes rigid for a second before I see him take in a slightly deeper breath than normal and forcefully ease out. The kind of relaxation that comes with being a badass hand-to-hand fighter, and that makes me pretty wary that he's about to hit me  _really_  hard.

"I've seen it happen," Jason admits, grudgingly and like it causes him a lot of pain to do so. "But he'd  _never_  have asked me to do it. Talon's not supposed to feel  _human_ , remember? Fucking is kind of a human thing."

Oh, that's not good. In fact, that's pretty damn indicative of some pretty fucked up sexual things. He's never raped anyone, never been asked, never got touched by Owlman, but he's seen it happen?

"What happened?" I ask, before I think about it. He gives me a nasty look, but then looks away and shrugs.

"If he wanted something like that done, he used the gangs. Usually they didn't have a problem with it." He crosses his arms — which actually, weirdly makes me feel safer — and I can see his fingers clench down on his own skin. "I'm not a damn  _whore_ , Roy," he spits, with another nasty look at me. "You think I don't know the kind of shit that happens to people like that? Getting beat to hell was one thing but if he'd ever tried to fucking  _touch_  me like that I would have torn him to  _fucking_ pieces." Or tried, is the better end to that sentence.

Oh,  _fuck_.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," I say again, scrubbing a hand over my face and giving a wince. "I didn't think. Shit comes out of my mouth and I don't always think about what I'm saying before it gets outs." I sigh and hold my arms open, inviting. "You can hit me if you want. I totally deserve it." I close my eyes, stiffening muscle for some kind of protection against the damn  _lethal_  fists of an ex-Talon, and then crack one eye open a little bit when nothing comes.

Jason's looking at me like I'm insane, arms still crossed and not even an inch away from where he started. He hasn't moved at all. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks bluntly.

"I just said it, didn't I?" I counter, keeping my arms open and my stance wide. Sure, a punch from Jason will knock me on my ass either way, but maybe I'll get the chance to at least land a little bit better than flat on my back if I'm standing sturdily enough. "Come on, hit me. I said some really  _dumb_  things and insinuated a lot of shit that I shouldn't have, and  _totally_  forgot where the hell you're from and that it actually  _means_  shit to you. Hit me, I deserve it."

Mostly, I forgot that Jason's from goddamn  _Gotham_. And not just Gotham, but Crime Alley, the fucked up neighborhood to end all fucked up neighborhoods. I've got no idea what he saw, or what he was part of, even  _before_  the Owl, but I'd bet he's got more than his fair share of seeing how people end up on the streets. Not to be fucking creepy, but I'd bet before the scars, and before the constant snarling glare, that Jason was  _damn_  attractive. To the right people, even as a kid.

I've got no clue what might have happened to him, or what might have  _almost_  happened, or what he's  _seen_  happen to other people, but I'd also bet that there's no real protection against  _anything_  in Crime Alley. Rape, murder, violence? Totally things that happens all the time there. I know and I've never even  _been_.

Yeah, Jason probably had some screwed views of how things worked even before the Owl got ahold of him, and I damn well should have remembered that. I  _also_ shouldn't just go off and ask people triggering, sensitive questions like that. It's just dumb, when the only two people I'd ask are two traumatized as hell lethal killing machines.

Way to go, Roy.  _Very_  smart.

"I'm not going to hit you," Jason says, and I give it another second before letting my arms lower.

"Why  _not?_ " I ask, incredulously. I mean, I freaked him out. I hurt him or at least brought up a lot of shit he didn't want to remember. Why the hell  _wouldn't_  he hurt me for that? Why wouldn't he take his frustrations out when I  _offered_  him the chance to?

Jason shakes his head and gives a tiny roll of his eyes. "Alright, fuck all of this. Sit down," he demands, and I take a look around before pointing at the mat under our feet. " _Yes_. Sit."

I'm not suicidal enough to ignore a demand from an ex-Talon, so I do it. I fold my legs under myself and sit down right where I am, cross-legged. Jason, after a second, follows me down. I get another chance to look at just how  _smoothly_  he moves — like fucking magic, I swear — but this time more in detail, because he's just in a plain black t-shirt and what I'm pretty sure are normal jeans. Not tight fitting jeans, loose enough that I'm pretty sure he could still kick me in the head from a normal standing position, but tight enough that I can see what his legs are doing underneath them.

He  _looks_  at me for a second, adopting the same crossed-leg pose I'm in, and then gives a little shrug. "It's just a sore point, alright?" I open my mouth to ask why and snap it shut again without saying a word. I'd like to be done with shoving my foot in my own mouth today. That'd be nice. "Just  _ask_ ," he says, with a hint of irritation.

"Why's it a sore point?" I blurt, given permission, and I can see his jaw clench for a second.

"Come  _on_ ," he says with a bitter snort. "I was a fifteen year old under  _Owlman_."

"Okay, I can make assumptions but I've actually got no clue what that means," I admit.

Jason gives a real roll of his eyes this time, and his palms rest face down on each knee. It looks like a familiar, comfortable pose. Taken without really thinking about it. Not like mine, I'm never really sure what to do with my hands when I sit like this.

"Alright, let's set all of this straight," Jason says, with another huff of breath. "I grew up on Crime Alley, alright? So I spent a lot of time around a lot of fucked up things and people, and I did a lot of shit that I'm not proud of to stay alive once I was on my own." He winces, then looks away. "There were some things I  _could_  have done to make money — fuck knows people offered enough times — but I never did, and I damn well never let anyone  _insist_." Jason's mouth curls in a snarl. "I had too much pride to lower myself to do that shit, I saw enough people sell themselves to make ends meet and I  _damn_  well didn't want to be one of them."

Oh… Yeah, that would explain a lot of Jason's reaction to my  _stupid_  words. Christ, I need to watch what I say. I  _really_  do. Otherwise stupid shit like this happens.

"After the Owl picked me up," Jason continues, with a small shrug, "it was really a non-issue. All of it. I didn't even see anyone but him and the poor bastards I ' _practiced_ ' on for nearly two years. I mean, there were some small moments where Superwoman would stop by, but we didn't talk and she really didn't seem to care I existed." He looks back at me. "It got worse later. There were a few times I was ordered to watch and make sure the gangs did what he'd paid them to, and make sure that everyone got the right message. My presence made that happen. Gangs doing it is one thing, but if I was there that made it a  _message_  and made it have a  _point_ , even if I wasn't actually doing anything but standing there."

"But what about  _you?_ " I ask, watching the way he gets a little more tense and then eases out again. It's so strange watching him do that.  _I_  don't know how to do that, and Oliver sure didn't. No one else I've been close enough to knew how, or had the temper for it. When Dick was Talon he was  _always_  relaxed, or at least hid whatever tension he had so well  _I_  never saw it.

"He left me alone," Jason answers, "and I got distracted on a patrol  _once_ , by Catwoman." Oh, I have seen  _her._  She's not exactly a hero, but she's not precisely one of the Crime Syndicate's lackeys either. I'd call her a mercenary, more than anything. Up for hire to do more or less anything, if you pay her enough money for it. There's  _another_  woman to add to the Owlman's list of dangerous women to fuck around with. She's dangerous as  _all_  hell, but damn does she fill out that bodysuit. I would have been distracted too.

"What happened?" I ask, repeating the question but for a different answer. Fun how much use you can get out of those two words. 'What happened?' kind of covers most of your bases.

Jason winces. "She flirted, got  _way_  too damn close, and stole a taser out of my belt that she then nailed me with. That stung, and the Owl wasn't real happy about it." I can't imagine. I've got no idea how D handled any kind of sexual thing, if he  _ever_  did and isn't just asexual, but Oliver  _encouraged_  me so long as I was smart about it. I mean, obviously I  _wasn't_ , but that's not the point. "He made sure I wouldn't get distracted again," Jason concludes, "and I didn't."

"So you're what, just totally not attracted to people?" I'm actually seriously curious. I've met all kinds of people that labelled themselves this or that, or didn't like the labels at all, and I'm not totally sure I qualify as straight myself — I might have experimented, once or twice — but I've got no clue what Jason and D's experiences translate out to. What were they before? What are they now? Is sex just not a thing to them?

Jason studies me, then eventually gives a small shrug. "After what he did to me the idea of women is…" He winces again. "It makes me a little sick to think about."

"But you're straight?" I ask. "I mean, you're not attracted to guys?" He gives me a look like he's never even really considered the idea. Confusion, surprise, and what looks like some automatic refusal.

"I don't know," he answers, kinda defensively. "I really didn't get a chance to figure any of that out. I've never  _been_ attracted to a guy, if that's what you're asking. I don't have a  _problem_ with it, but—"

"Relax, Jaybird," I interrupt, with a small grin. "I was just asking. What you are or aren't is none of my damn business unless you want it to be."

"You're an ass," Jason says with a snort. He looks pretty torn apart, and pretty damn vulnerable, but at least he's back to doing his sort-of-coping anger as a shield thing. That's  _so_  much better than the numbness, or the rawness. One step at a time, right?

"Always," I answer, and he rolls his eyes.

"So," he starts, in  _that_  tone people always use when they're swapping topics on you, "speaking of, have you talked to Cheshire yet?"

I wince before I can think about it. "No," I admit. Oh, she has been  _far_  away from me. "I've been here four damn months," closer to two, if you only count the time I wasn't high on morphine and then in withdrawal  _again_ , "and I don't even know if she's really here. Not a glimpse."

"You should probably talk to her," Jason points out.

"Gee, thanks Jaybird. That's  _really_  helpful." I shoot him a narrow-eyed glare, and then cross my arms.  _There's_  something to do with them while I'm sitting this way. It makes me look a bit like I'm sulking — which I am  _not_ , damn it — but to hell with that. "I'd have to  _find_  her first. Obviously  _she_ doesn't want to talk to  _me_."

Jason gives a bark of laughter that makes me give him another nasty look. This is not  _funny_. "Since when has someone not  _wanting_  to talk to you ever meant a damn thing?" Jason asks, with a raised eyebrow and a thin smirk. "You could track her down, or  _ask_  Ra's to point you in the right direction. Or are you  _giving up?_ "

"It's not my  _choice_ , Jaybird," I try and emphasize, setting my jaw. " _She_  left, remember? You think showing up where she doesn't want me is going to just magically make her accept me again? That's a little optimistic for you, isn't it?" Which is a  _mean_ thing to say, but fuck it.

"The way  _I_  heard it," Jason points out, shifting his legs around to flatten one foot along the floor and raise that knee up, curling both arms around his leg and resting his chin on the top, "she left and  _took_  your kid because it wasn't safe for her to be in Star City after Queen found out that the two of you were a thing. Also, that she didn't take you along because a hero's stronghold — especially  _Ra's'_  — isn't really a place for bastards like us. Now that you're  _here_ , what's the problem?"

My mouth closes, the words to argue his point  _totally_ abandoning me. That's… That's a really good point, actually. Jade's note told me that she was leaving because it wasn't safe, and I wasn't welcome where she was going. She was  _going_  to Ra's al Ghul's fortress, to join up with the rest of the League of Shadows. Well, I'm here now, and Oliver's definitely not going to track me down in here.

I  _assumed_  that she didn't want a damn thing to do with me because I was an addict, but I've also got no  _clue_  if she knows that wasn't my choice. I don't think Ra's has ever mentioned — we really don't talk — whether  _he_  knows if it was the Owl that forced me to go on heroine, and I know I've only actually told Dick and Jason. Both of which never made it back here, and therefore never had a chance to actually  _tell_  anyone the information I gave them. So, does Jade have any idea?

I  _can't_  let her think that this was all my fault, and my choice. At the very least, I want the right to visit Lian and see my damn  _daughter_ , and I don't think Jade would ever let me near her if she still thinks that I was unstable enough to become an addict by choice. I have to  _fix_  that.

Maybe I'll even get Jade herself back. I mean, I did get addicted so I'm not totally blameless, but it counts for something that I would have  _chosen_  just to get out of Star City, right? Fuck  _yes_  that counts for something.

"Now that you've pulled your head out of your ass," Jason says, with that same tiny smirk, "are you going to go track her down? The base is only so big, you can probably find her pretty quick. Or ask Dick, I'm pretty sure he's the best tracker of the three of us."

Yeah, that would make sense.

"I'll look around first," I decide, "then ask D." I sigh and let my arms uncross. "And I guess if everything  _else_  fails, I'll ask Ra's."

But there's no way I'm doing that first. If he doesn't like the idea of me trying to fix things, and tells Jade I'm looking for her… What if she runs? She probably doesn't have any place  _safer_ to go to, but that would never stop Jade. She's a survivor. I've got no idea if she'd try and get away from me or just stand her ground and beat me into a bloody pulp — because I'm pretty sure she could, and I'm pretty sure I'd let her — but I don't want to find out if I don't have to.

"Go on," Jason says, with a tilt of his head towards the door behind him. "Go sort things out."

Oh  _yes_. I can  _fix_ things.

I retrieve my bow, and make it almost all the way to the door before I stop and look back. Jason is still sitting there, head lowered next to his knee and his shoulders rising and falling in faint breaths, a steady pattern but  _so_ not a natural one.

Oh  _fuck_ it.

I slowly head back, and his head raises and looks back over his shoulder at me before I'm even within five feet. He's got a questioning look on his face, and I offer him my free right hand to help him up. "Want to spar?" I ask, quietly.

"You've got an ex to talk to," he points out, glancing briefly at my hand. I shrug.

"She left  _me_ , so she can wait." Besides, Jade is more or less  _fine_. Jason's fucked up, and traumatized, and just came back from the  _dead_. I'm pretty damn sure he could use my company more than Jade can, and I can wait to see Lian. What's a few more hours?

He doesn't answer, and I wiggle my hand a little bit to point out that it's  _still there_.

"Come on, Jaybird," I coax. He doesn't look convinced so I offer a grin that feels half-faked and add in the easiest way I can think of to explain why I'm still here. "If you're moving you don't have to think, right?"

He just stares at me for another long few moments, and then he gives a small nod and reaches back, taking my hand and turning to let me pull him up to standing. Not that he  _needs_ pulling, but it's a symbolic thing. I brace to do it — because Jason is all  _muscle_ and therefore  _heavy_ , as well as the biggest of the three of us — and get him up on his feet with no embarrassing toppling over on either side. Not that either of us would ever do something that totally pathetic.

Well,  _I_ might.

"Hey, maybe you can teach me some things," I say, with a more heartfelt grin. Jason is both Owlman and Ra's al Ghul trained, after all, so he can totally kick my ass back and forth across this room all day. He might even be able to do it if we started out at range, and I had my bow and arrows. I haven't ever gotten the chance to see how good he is at dodging, and even though I'm a  _damn_ good shot I also  _remember_ how seriously ridiculous Dick always was at dodging any kind of projectile. I never had a reason to shoot at him, but I was always pretty positive I couldn't hit him if I tried.

Maybe I can hit Jason, he doesn't have as many years of experience, but I'd rather not try my luck. My luck seems to be pretty  _awful_ recently.

"Yeah, sure," he agrees easily, and then pauses for a few moments, looking at me. "Thanks," he finally spits out, in a tone that's some messed up mix of grudging and actually thankful.

I grin, releasing his hand. "What are friends for, right?"


	19. Take a Breath, and Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, I am past being sick, back on work (semi-exhausted), and this is the last chapter I have pre-written of this. The next one is in the works, but unless I finish it before Friday I'll probably fill a couple of days with some lovely porn one-shots I've written. We'll see. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

I hover in front of the door. One of my hands has been raised for the last few seconds, but actually knocking, actually  _touching_  the door is hard. I didn't think it would be this nerve-wracking to be here, or to just, you know,  _knock_. I don't think anything's made me this nervous in a long while, except maybe the couple of times that Oliver's been pissed all to hell and I had to ask him something that I couldn't communicate through strategically placed post-it notes.

This is a  _whole_  other level than that kind of quiet, wary communication. Jade and Oliver don't get angry in the same way.

I lower my hand, taking half a step back. Then I reverse the movement and come back up to the wood, raising my hand again. And,  _again_ , it pauses just a fraction away from the door. I just  _can't_ push my hand that last inch or so to knock; it scares the  _hell_ out of me.

What if Jade drives me out, snarling and with one of the seriously dangerous bladed weapons she has? What if she gets Ra's to throw me out? Okay,  _that's_  not going to happen. Jason and Dick are too valuable to him, and I'm one of them now, but paranoia is usually not so firmly grounded in reality. I don't need my fears to be  _real_  for the images to go dancing through my head anyway.

This is it, right?

I mean, if I knock on this door then I find out, one way or another, exactly what she thinks of me. I find out if she's ever going to let me see Lian again, or her, or if there's the  _faintest_  chance that she'll ever let me make this up to her.

What if it's 'no'?

Alright,  _fuck_  this. Not risking it is  _not_  better than finding out, even if the answer isn't the one that I want. I can take a little pain, that's alright, and at least then it'll be over, right? Ignorance isn't bliss in this case — and I'm pretty firmly of the opinion that that saying is  _bullshit_ , anyway — and I'm so not keeping myself in suspense for any longer than I have to, just because I'm afraid that she might throw a few punches and banish me from her life completely.

From my  _daughter's_  life.

But should—  _Yes_. God, suck it  _up_  and just  _do_  it, Roy. If Jason could see me now he would have slammed my head against the door as a knock at least ten minutes ago. If Dick wasn't at the entrance to this particular section of apartment-room-things, distracting the guards for me, he would be giving me that  _look_  that he gets when he's faintly disappointed and just waiting for me to get things together.

It's kind of damn impressive how much he can convey without actually making any kind of expression.

I take in a deep breath, steeling myself, and force my hand forward to knock. The impact of my bare knuckles — I'm just in regular clothes, stripped of my costume and all my weapons except one knife so I'm a little less threatening — against the wood sounds ridiculously loud to my ears, and I wince just a bit as I drop my hand.

Is she even  _here?_  Okay, good question that I hadn't considered.

Dick helped me track her down to these particular rooms — I'm not totally sure if he just asked Ra's or not, and I don't think I want to know — but he didn't give me any kind of information on when she's there, or when she's not. I have no idea if she's off somewhere, or eating, or any of the  _dozen_  things she could be doing with or without Lian.

If she's not,  _wow_  do I look like an idiot. All that buildup and hesitation for  _nothing_ , and I get to just sit here until someone comes through, finds me, and shoos me away and out of the restricted area. It's housing for Ra's' legitimate badass members of his League of Shadows, and not just the regular ninjas. With them is where Jason, Dick, and I are living. This is a guarded section, with — from what D told me — some fairly nice rooms.

The doorknob turns, and I hold my breath for a moment as the door opens inward.

Jade's dark eyes are narrowed, irritated, even as she's opening the door. They get downright  _furious_  when she focuses on me. " _Roy?!_ " she demands, in a hiss, her hand closing around the side of the door. Just like that, all my carefully prepared words and all the ways that I've thought this conversation through quite suddenly abandon me.

"Okay, alright,  _before_  you slam the door—" She goes to do exactly that, and I jerk forward and slip into the gap, managing to hold it open but still getting jammed between the door and the frame  _really_  painfully. The shoulder that takes the brunt of it might not work too well for a while. " _Ouch_ , alright, probably deserved that. Jade—" Her lips curls up and she pulls the door open in what I'm almost certain is going to be another attempt to slam it closed  _through_  me. "Woah!" I nearly shout, bracing and holding both arms up in some kind of protection instead of getting out of the way because I'm a lovesick  _idiot_. "Talk!" I call as a peace offering, eyeing the threatening mass of the door.

"Get the  _hell_  out of my room, Roy," Jade snarls up at me.

"I  _just_  want to talk," I say, turning my head to speak to her instead of at the door, "I swear. Talk, that's  _it_. Five minutes and you can throw me right back out and I'll never even try seeing you again." I can see her free hand curl, nails curving in but not touching her own skin. I swallow and lower my arms, stepping back and out of the doorframe. "Jade,  _please_ ," I beg. Yeah, I'm not adverse to begging here. I love her, I love  _Lian_ , and  _damn_ my pride if it means I get to even  _see_ both of them again.

She watches me, black hair curling down around her shoulders and partway down her back. She looks… she looks  _good_. I really didn't expect her to look quite this, well, totally unaffected. She's barefoot, but in a dark green, circle-necked, long-sleeved shirt and black pants that hang over her feet. She looks completely put together, nothing like me. I might look alright now, but I know I don't look as good as I did back when I was Oliver's Arsenal. Withdrawal will do that to a person.

I lower one hand, slowly retrieving the sheathed hunting knife slipped into the side of my slacks, under the white t-shirt that I'm wearing. Her lips thin out, but she doesn't move until I offer her the knife hilt-first, then she takes it with a wary hand and a cautious look. I let my hand drop away but hold both arms up, spinning in a slow circle.

"There, I'm  _totally_ unarmed," I inform her, "and we both know you can kick my ass in hand-to-hand combat any day." I stop, and offer her a tiny, shakier than I'd like, grin. "Peace? For five minutes?"

She releases the door and draws the knife, twisting it easily between her fingers and then letting it lower to hang at her side, next to her thigh. "Five minutes," she agrees, and steps back.

I follow her forward into the room, waiting for the nasty look before I close the door behind myself. Not locking it, if she comes at me with the knife I'd  _really_  like some chance to escape, but closing it. She turns, standing in the center of what looks like a basic living room with one hand on her hip, the other holding my knife in an easy, familiar grip that I know could turn into her  _throwing_  it real easily. I probably couldn't even get out of the way in time.

"Your time's running," she points out, as I take one step forward from being directly against the door. " _Talk_ , if that's what you want."

Okay, yes, right. So, starting with—

"What did you hear about me?" I ask, and her lips twist into a disgusted  _sneer_  that makes me wince before I can stop myself. "Alright, I'll assume most of it. Did you hear — or did Ra's tell you, if  _he_  knows — that it wasn't my fault?" The hand with the knife twitches upwards, like she actually is going to throw it at me, and I take a jerky step back against the door. " _Not_  making excuses, I swear. I was  _going_  to collect enough money to get out of Star City and bail, that was it. Maybe I followed you, maybe I didn't, I never really got that far into planning it, but I was  _just_  going to get out. Promise." She doesn't look like she believes me, but that's alright. Just tell her the rest of the story, Roy, get her to see that you did this to protect her, for  _Lian._  She  _can't_  fault me for trying to keep our daughter safe, right, even if it did fuck me up? "I brought up some bad media for Oliver, and there were some people that didn't appreciate that. Owlman contacted me and told me that if I didn't turn  _myself_  into an addict, he would do it for me. He  _threatened_  you and Lian, Jade."

Okay, that's a  _lie_ , I admit. Owlman never flat out told me that the two of them would pay if I didn't do what he wanted, but I didn't  _need_ him to tell me that to hear it. If you can't threaten someone's safety to get them to do what you want, threaten the people they care about. It's simple tactics.

"Is that right?" she asks. At least she doesn't sound flat out disbelieving. There's something guarded in her tone, like she's not totally ready for me to know what she's thinking, but she doesn't sound incredulous or furious anymore.

" _Yes_ ," I answer. "I would  _never_  let anything happen to Lian, you  _know_  that. I did what I had to."

"You became an  _addict_ ," she spits out, like the word itself is dirty and  _disgusting_  which, fair point, it kind of is. "I was  _here_ , he could never have gotten at me."

"You didn't  _bother_ to tell me where you were going," I say, raising one hand in a gesture that I really don't even know the point of other than  _frustration_ , "and he's  _Owlman_ , the scariest bastard I've ever met! How the  _hell_ was I supposed to know that he was bluffing? Would you really want me to take that kind of a chance with our daughter?"

"It does not excuse your actions," she insists, the knife pressing down against her thigh. "You've proven you can be controlled by that drug, and that makes you  _dangerous_ for her. You'll  _never_ see her so long as that's true."

The words hit me like a blow to the gut, driving the air from my lungs in a rush, and I lean a little bit back against the wood of the door at my back.  _Never_ see Lian? No, that's… That's not  _fair_. This wasn't my fault, and I tried, god I  _tried_  not to let it have me.

"Do you think I  _liked_ it?" I ask, nearly incredulously.

Her eyes flicker, sharp and  _bright_  with anger. "Do you think I don't  _know_ you did, Roy?" she demands. "You might have been only semi-conscious, but I went to see you when you got here. You think I couldn't  _see_  it on you?!"

Here, with the  _morphine? No_. That doesn't prove  _anything_.

My jaw clenches and stupidly,  _recklessly_ , I take a step forward, my hands clenching. "Don't you  _dare_ blame me for that," I say, in a voice that I have to  _force_  to be quiet. "I didn't  _choose_  to wake up on morphine, Jade.  _Ra's_  did that to me, and I asked him to take me off it and he said  _no_. He  _tied me down_  when I tried to get it the hell out of my system by myself. Don't you  _dare_  blame me for that."

My teeth clench at the memory, and I try and ignore the way she's looking at me with injured pride, like she can't  _believe_  I'm saying a damn thing against her precious leader. Ra's can go  _fuck_  himself as far as I'm concerned. I never  _needed_  the painkillers, I could have taken it.

"You can blame me for the first time if you want to because yeah, you're right, I  _chose_  to take the heroine to  _protect my daughter_. You can say it's  _my_  fault that Owlman came after me and shut down every choice I had but that or  _suicide_ , and I wasn't even sure  _that_  would keep the bastard away from the two of you. You can call me a coward, and an addict, and a bastard, and whatever the hell other names you can think of for  _that_ , but don't you  _fucking_  dare blame me for what's not my fault. If he'd given me a damn choice I would have  _ripped_  the IV out of my damn arm instead of get hooked onto  _anything_  again.

"I thought you  _knew_  me better than to believe that I'd  _ever_  sink that low, Jade." My hands clench a little tighter, my teeth grinding together in restraint. " _Fine_ , I'm not a good person and we  _both_  knew that a long time before this even started, but I'm not an  _idiot_. Did you really think I'd  _ever_  put myself at the mercy of something that killed my ability to  _fight_ , Jade? Especially after Oliver fucking  _shot_  me?! Do you think I'm  _suicidal?!_ "

"You're—" she starts, and suddenly I don't want to hear another fucking word out of her mouth.

"No!" I say in what's almost a shout, cutting her off. "I know how to  _deal_  with life turning to shit Jade, I always  _have_. And you know what,  _fuck_  you, because I  _tried!_  I tried  _so_  damn hard to keep both of you safe and I did it at the cost of  _everything_  I was, so you don't  _get_  to turn around and tell me that I  _liked_  it because you heard rumors or saw me for two damn minutes while I was unconscious and your  _precious_  boss had already  _fucked_  me over. You have no  _fucking_  idea what it was like to try and hold onto the fact that I was doing this for two people that would  _condemn_  me for it, and that I was pretty sure I was never going to even  _see_  again. To know every second that keeping you and Lian safe was  _killing_  me and tearing apart every single  _inch_  of who I was, and  _still doing it._ "

I can feel that I'm trembling, and the anger is eating me alive, and I swallow hard to try and push it back. " _Fuck you_ , Jade," I manage, past a throat that feels too tight. "I wish I could  _hate_  you, and Lian, I wish there was any damn way that I could stop  _loving_  you with every fucking fiber of my being. But I  _can't_." I drag my eyes away from her face, unable to stand looking at her or trying to figure out what she thinks of me. "You want a  _fucking_  way to control me, Jade?  _That's_  it, not the goddamn drugs."

There's just silence, and I don't look back from the random spot on the wall that my eyes are fixed on. I don't want to, I  _can't_. What if she's angry, what if I just ruined any chance I ever had to fix things because  _fuck_  me I can't keep my own goddamn emotions in control? I can't even have a conversation without ranting at her and nearly shouting, and why the hell did I ever think I even had a chance? I  _knew_  that she would hate me for becoming an addict, and I don't know why I ever thought that might be different just because I was pressured into it.

"There," I say, quietly and still through the tightness of my throat that feels kinda permanent now. I wonder if this is what D used to feel like, when he was injured and could barely even breathe? Because that's what this feels like to me. Like if I don't keep swallowing and shoving and  _fighting_  against the pain in my chest and the lump in my throat that it's going to destroy me, and I'll never breathe again. "Everything on the table, right?" There's no immediate answer, and I resist the urge to swallow again. It hasn't helped before.

"I'll go," I announce, starting to turn back to the door. "You don't have to do anything, I get it. I'll leave you alone." I twist the doorknob beneath my hand, pulling the door open just a little bit before turning back. I still don't look at her — with what has to be in her eyes I just  _can't_  — but at the floor instead, keeping my head down and away from her. "Make sure Lian stays safe," I ask,  _plead_ , before I turn away from her again. I get halfway out the door before she speaks.

" _Stop_ ," she commands, an imperious iciness to her tone that makes me cringe, but also halts me in my tracks. I don't hear her approach, but suddenly there's a hand clenching in the fabric of my shirt, at the back of my shoulder, and yanking me back inside the room. She spins me, slamming the door shut by slamming me against it, and holds me there by my shoulder. Her eyes are narrowed, but her face is a smooth mask that I can't read. I'm not sure I want to.

"What are you going to do?" she demands, in that same icy tone.

" _Nothing_ ," I try and convince her, but my voice just comes out dull and kind of resigned. "It's your choice, I'd never come after either of you."

She pulls me forward a bit and then slams me back up against the door. " _No_ ," she corrects, sharply. "What are you going to do with  _yourself?_  You've joined up with Grayson, and that younger Talon, Todd. What about  _that?_ "

I blink and, honestly, it takes me a few seconds to switch tracks enough to even try  _thinking_  about the different topic. "They want to kill Owlman," I tell her, "and I guess I'm along for the ride. It's not like I can have any kind of a life as long as he remembers that I got out of Star City still alive. There's not much choice.  _Why?_ "

"You  _idiot_ ," she spits, and I can feel the arm holding me against the wall tremble just a little bit. "That's  _suicide_  without an army."

"I owe them," I counter, feeling the resigned edge to my words fade under a burning rise of what feels like… loyalty? Yeah,  _fuck_ , loyalty. "They saved something a hell of a lot more important than my life, so wherever they go, I'll follow."

For once I manage to bite down on my tongue before the words that want to leave it actually make it anywhere  _near_  out of my mouth. So, instead of the resigned, quiet voice that was going to come out, I manage to say the thoughts in my head fairly steadily instead. "There's not anything for me here anyway, right?"

Which is a  _painful_ thing to admit, but it's something I drag out and let hang in the air anyway. Just because it  _hurts_  doesn't mean it isn't  _true_. I was —  _am_ , hisses a voice I don't want to think about — an addict, and apparently my reasons don't mean anything, so I can kiss off any hope of seeing Lian. Or actually, you know, kissing. None of that is going to happen unless there's a damn miracle, since Jade has pretty much shut me off at every turn. The faster I can hammer that into my own head — and beat that  _stupid_  little part of me that will never stop hoping into silence — the easier things will be, right? No hope is better than false hope, and I'm  _really_  done with getting yanked around like there's a leash around my neck or I've got a damn bridle in my mouth.

I'm not an idiot, whatever other people think of me. I  _know_  when things are done.

"Look," I say, unable to help the edge to my voice, "for the love of god just  _tell_ me one way or another, Jade. If you want me to stay I'll—" I bite down on my tongue again, cutting off the promise to stay. I might, I probably would, but there's a part of me that will never forgive her for leaving me, and another part that is  _damn_  sure that the two ex-Talons have treated me better than she ever did, even though I was around them for all of two weeks.  _They_ didn't care that I was an addict, don't care that I might still be, and  _they_ actually came after me when that was  _all_ I was and dragged me out of it.  _They_ saved me; Jade  _didn't_.

If she wants me to stay, but they want me with them… I don't know what I'd do, I don't think I'll ever know unless it happens and I don't think I  _want_ it to. "Just tell me," I repeat.

Coming mostly weaponless was a good idea and I  _know_  that, but it still makes me feel really vulnerable to not have anything I can reach for. I'm not the fighter that Jade is, I never was, and without my knives or my bow I'm pretty much totally helpless against her. Maybe I can hold her off for a few minutes or long enough to back out of the door and run the hell away, but it's not that likely. I'm just  _not_ a hand-to-hand person, and I'd really like any kind of weapon near to hand, just to make myself feel better.

"I don't have an answer for you," Jade finally says, after minutes that feel like they're dragging down on my damn soul, and my stomach clenches in time with my jaw.

"What do you  _want_  from me?" I demand, rolling my shoulder forward to push her hand away, and she steps back. Not because she has to, but because I want her to. "You can't just stay in this noncommittal bullshit attitude and not decide one way or another, Jade, I  _can't_  just sit here waiting for you forever. I  _won't_."

I  _will_ , but she doesn't need to know that. There's no way in  _hell_ I'm telling her that right now, I'm pretty sure I would sit at her door forever if it meant that she'd take me back at the end of time. Even if it was just maybe, even if I  _never_  got any kind of a real confirmation, I think I'd do it.

_God_  I love her. Why the  _hell_  can't I shake that? Why is it that I can't even  _fathom_  hurting her, when I can picture — have  _always_  been able to picture — putting an arrow through Oliver's throat without a problem. Thinking of hurting the closest thing I have, or had, to family has never made me feel so sick and  _wrong_  as trying to think about hurting Jade.

I would let her beat me into the ground without a struggle if fighting meant hurting her, and  _damn_  if that doesn't scare the fuck out of me. I've always been  _so_  damn independent but suddenly, with her, I could stay waiting on her word forever and never have the will to get back to my feet without her.

"You think I  _want_  to do this to you, Roy?" she demands, and my hands clench again.

"Well you haven't  _told_  me otherwise so  _yeah!_  I guess I do! I'm not a damn mind reader, Jade! It's not fa—"

A shrill cry freezes me in place, shocks me into stillness, and Jade cringes back and away from me. That's— I  _know_  that cry. It's muffled, not quite what I remember, but I'd know that unhappy sound  _anywhere_. Another splits into the sudden silence between us, and Jade whirls around and stalks across the room without another word to me. She opens one of the doors leading out, and my breath catches in my throat as the crying from beyond gets louder without the barrier.

" _Lian_ ," I breathe as Jade reemerges, a familiar black bundle of cloth in her arms. Black, because Jade could never stand pink and I didn't like much green. My knife is gone from her hand, probably tucked away somewhere, but the way she's standing is threatening even with both of her arms taken up by our child.

It  _hurts_  seeing my daughter  _so_  close, but  _damn_  if I can look away. It feels like if I pull my eyes away for even a second, blink or turn or do  _anything_  but keep focused on her, she'll vanish. I'll lose her again. God I can't even stand the thought.

And Jade won't let me near her.

"That's  _cruel_ , Jade," I say through my teeth, clenching my hands tighter and locking my knees back to keep myself  _exactly_  where I am. If I don't, if I dare to let my hands loosen or my legs bend, I don't know if I can stay here. I don't know if I'll be able to hold myself back from doing anything,  _everything_ , just to hold my daughter again.

"Shut up, Roy," Jade snaps at me, her dark eyes only glancing up for a moment. Lian makes a sleepy, whining sound, and I realize with another sickening clench of my stomach and my goddamn  _heart_  that she's bigger than I remember. She used to fit easily in just one of Jade's arms, cradled up against a side or against her chest, but now she looks too big to do that anymore. She's still wrapped inside a blanket, but the arms poking out are thicker than I remember, covered in dark green pajamas, and purposefully clutching instead of just grasping.

She's older, and I  _missed_  it. My breath comes shallow, and that tightness is back in my throat.

Jade looks up at me after Lian quiets down, just staring for what feels like a  _really_  long time. Then, she tilts her head downwards and to the side in what  _looks_  like a grudgingly inviting gesture. I stay very still, not daring to even twitch in case that look means what I think it does.

"She's  _your_ daughter too," Jade says, her voice tight but forcibly quiet, grudgingly accepting.

I take one step forward, pausing to make sure she doesn't snarl or snap at me, before rushing the rest of the way across the room. Not quite a run, but it's too rushed to be a real jog either. Lian's eyes are closed — her black hair thicker now, fuller — but she's got a thin little downward frown on her face, and her hand is still clenched tight in the fabric of Jade's shirt. Jade shifts, gently reaching up and around our daughter to stroke her hair away from her face. Lian gives a sleepy mumble, but doesn't open her eyes.

"I cannot take you back, Roy," Jade says, her voice soft and quiet but with an edge that forces me to look up in instinctive wariness. "I do not know if I will  _ever_  have that in me, and you  _cannot_  have her either, not while you are hunted by so many, but…" She dips her head in a shallow nod, towards Lian. "She is your daughter, and so long as you stay  _here_  and she stays safe, you may see her."

I don't manage words for a few moments, and I have to fight back the burn of tears in my eyes, but I get through it. "Thank you," I say equally quietly, and Jade gives another nod.

"She is more or less asleep," Jade informs me, "and if she was going to pick up anything of yours I suppose your ability to sleep through  _anything_  is a decent trait for now."

"You haven't seen me sleep recently," I say without thinking about it, and then sharply close my mouth with a wince.  _Christ_ , well done Roy. I'm apparently  _really_  good at making myself sound even  _more_  pathetic than people already know I am, especially in front of the few people that I actually give a damn, sometimes, about the opinions of.

Not that it's not  _true_. Sure, I slept like a rock back when everything in my life fit neatly into place and I didn't have to worry about a damn thing, but now? Now it's rare if I get more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, and the  _months_ of paranoid hiding made me pretty damn sensitive to any and everything going on around me. Pretty much any noise within about twenty feet — more, if it's louder — will snap me awake and set me reaching for the closest weapon with a surge of adrenaline. I still wake up expecting someone to be trying to slit my throat.

Being in a building full of legitimate fucking  _ninjas_  has only made things a hell of a lot worse. I'm not contrite or quiet like Dick and Jason, and maybe I haven't got the serious  _reputation_  those two do but I've done a lot of stuff that's made the hero community pretty much hate me. I'm in a building  _full_  of heroes.

Unnerving is a kind word for it, and paranoid is a  _really_  kind word for the way I'm usually behaving these days.

Jade looks up at me — I look firmly downwards at Lian to avoid whatever she's looking at me  _with_  — but doesn't call me out on my really  _sad_  implication. "She'll be asleep for a long time is my point," Jade informs me. "Come back tomorrow, Roy, she'll be awake then and the two of you can be reintroduced."

I don't  _want_  to leave, but she's right. Apart from stare at her, there's not much I can do with my daughter while she's sleeping. I can wait. Now that I  _know_ Jade isn't going to vanish on me again, that I've got some kind of a chance, I can wait. That's alright,  _really_.

"Thank you," I repeat, and Jade steps away from me, moving back through the open door. I don't follow, standing where I am until she comes back and closes the door behind her with a quiet click.

"I won't deny Lian her father," Jade says flatly, with one arched eyebrow, "but do not expect anything more from me, Roy."

"Of course. No." I rush to try and say  _something_  to reassure her. "I'll take whatever you give me, Jade. You don't have to give me anything more than you feel like, I promise."

Her eyebrow lowers, but her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. "If I'd told you to leave," she says softly, "to never come near me or her ever again, would you have done it?"

I wince, and oh the thought still  _stings_  even though I know she doesn't mean it. If she even tried to say that, after this, I don't know what I might do. To take my hopes that high and then smash them back down would be… I might hurt her without even thinking about it, or just break down completely. But before?

"Yes," I answer, roughly. "I would have."

She studies me for a few more seconds before giving a final nod. "I'll tell the guards to let you through tomorrow, though I imagine it won't make much difference since I am not entirely sure how you entered this time. This area is off limits to anyone who is not housed here."

"D," I answer with half a shrug, and then, realizing that she probably doesn't know who the hell 'D' might be, clarify. "Dick. Grayson. He tracked you here for me, and distracted the guards so I could slip in. I'm uh, not the stealth master that he is, but I can take advantage of a distraction."

Her lip curls up. "Ah, yes.  _Grayson_."

"You don't like him?" I ask, before realizing that it's a really dumb question to ask. Of  _course_  she doesn't. She's a hero, after all, and he was kind of a murdering sociopath before he got away from Owlman. He's  _still_ kind of a murdering sociopath, but at least now he's not their enemy. He probably wouldn't kill any of them in anything but self defense.

_Probably_.

Nah, it wouldn't happen. Jason wouldn't kill anyone here with anything but a  _damn_  good reason, and Jason's pretty much got a hold on anything Dick does. It's not real obvious unless you spend as much close time around them as I did, watching them interact, but even though Dick is the leader of the two of them and Jason snaps to attention when he speaks, it's  _Jason_  who has the final say in things.

I don't even think Jason's noticed how firmly D is wrapped around his fingers, or how much the older ex-Talon's actions hinge on whatever it is  _Jason_  wants. I mean  _Jesus_ , Dick is going up against  _Owlman_ for the kid, that's proof enough.

And so am  _I_. Shit, Jason's got  _both_  of us wrapped around his fingers and doesn't even know it. The day he figures that out is going to be one hell of a scary time. Jason's not usually an asshole about things, but putting that much power in the hands of a guy who's pretty much been denied it his whole life? Oh,  _there's_  a recipe for some interesting things.

"I do not trust him around Lian," Jade corrects, with a faint sneer that I don't think is meant for me. "He is… acceptable on his own, I suppose."

"I didn't ask you to like him," I remind her, quietly. "It's totally fine if you don't, but  _I_  do. D's a," I still hesitate a moment before saying it, "friend of mine, has been for a long time. I'm not abandoning him now."

She flicks one hand at me in a gesture that I read as 'out,' and I turn to head to the door. She follows. "I was under the impression Talons didn't have friends," she says, in a tone that's kinda snippy, and I swallow back the snapped retort that comes to mind.

"Not officially," I agree, as she slips ahead of me and opens the door with an easy twist of the handle, "but we spent a lot of time together when we were younger, in Star City. The only reason I didn't make it official is because I was pretty damn convinced that Owlman would beat him bloody if he even  _thought_  that D was getting attached to anyone. Really didn't want to get him hurt."

Jade makes a soft snorting noise, and I pause halfway into the doorway, mostly still turned towards her. "The other one, Jason, is more tolerable," she says, her tone turning towards grudging again. "At least he does not hide what he is."

"That's  _not_  D's fault," I point out, sharper than I mean to. Nope, fuck it. It's the truth and I'm not taking it back. "He didn't choose to be Talon, or be like he is. He did the best he could with it."

"Are you saying he's a  _good person?_ " she asks, with more than a hint of disbelief, and I shake my head.

"No," I correct. "I'm saying he's not a good person because Owlman  _made_  him that way. You take  _any_  six year old and put them under that kind of a sadistic bastard for nine years and you'll get the same thing. I have no  _idea_  what D would be if the Owl had never seen him, and neither do you, or anyone else. Seriously, he didn't have a choice. Judge him on who he is now, as Dick, not what he did when he was Talon."

She gives something that's a little too sharp to be a sigh, tossing her head to clear her hair out of her face with a slight sneer. " _Fine_ , I suppose I can give him a chance to prove himself acceptable company for Lian. Though being  _your_  friend does not endear him to me in the slightest; I am aware of what  _your_  friends are like."

For the first time in what feels like too long, a small smile tugs at my lips. "Thank you, Jade," I say, and I mean it for more than just giving Dick a second chance. I  _try_  and put that into the words, and I think I might come close to succeeding because she nods, recrossing her arms and raising her head. Somehow she manages to look down her nose at me, even though I'm taller than she is.

"Tomorrow," she says, instead of acknowledging my words. "Now get out of my door so I can close it, Roy."

I take a step back, and without another word she closes the door just as promised. I can hear the muffled click of a lock, this time, and I just stand there for a little while.

Holy  _fuck_.

She  _didn't_  turn me away, I get to see my  _daughter_ again. I get to spend time with her and she gets to know who her dad is and  _holy shit_ , I really get it  _back_. Not Jade, and that still hurts a little but even if I can't have Jade — and  _that's_  not even total, because Jade will be there to watch me with Lian, I'm  _sure_  — I still get to see my daughter. She'll grow up with me now.

That's… That's more than enough, at least right now. Being able to see Lian again is more than I expected to get, so what does the rest of it matter right now?

I get to  _see_   _my daughter_.

I step back from the door, turning to amble down the corridor. Tomorrow, I can come back and get to know her. She should be talking by now, right, at least a little? At… fifteen months?

I missed  _seven_  months of her life,  _fuck_.

I really don't bother being quiet, or hiding, so the guards at the end of the corridor — it curves a bit, so it's not like it was a straight shot down to see me — notice me pretty much the second I come into their view. They turn at the sound of my footsteps, from where they're pointed the opposite direction, and then one gives a shout.

"Hey!" Hands go to weapons, and I realize suddenly,  _instantly_ , that Jade still has my knife and I am very,  _very_  unarmed. Oh…

They don't take more than a step a piece before Dick slips into view out of fucking  _nowhere_ , around the edge of where the corridor branches off into the rest of Ra's' compound. He clears his throat, purposefully, and one spins towards him while the other flinches but stays looking at me.

" _Talon_ ," the guard that turned snarls, past his full mask, and I see the guard still looking at me flinch again, pretty violently.  _Yeah_ , does my friend have a reputation. Kudos that my guard hasn't turned around yet. Of the two of us, especially since I haven't got any obvious weapons, I'd definitely call Dick the bigger threat every time.

He studies each guard for a moment before looking past them, to me, and crooking two fingers in a slight gesture. "Roy, come through." His voice is smooth again, the rasp to it  _totally_  gone along with all the actual physical damage, and that makes him  _so_  much scarier. An injured ex-Talon is one thing, one that's not just healed but in fucking  _perfect_  physical condition is pretty fucking terrifying.

_My_  guard at least looks like he wants to argue — the other one, only Dick knows — but he doesn't, and I all but skip through the middle of the two of them, giving each a mocking salute with my fingers as I pass. I swear I can almost hear their teeth grind.

"Appreciated, D," I say easily, as Dick steps in beside me and we leave the guards behind.

"Things went well then?" he asks, glancing over and up at me. I'm a little taller than he is, and heavier built, but I really don't think I'm stronger. The things I saw him do as a kid never seemed physically possible at his size, but somehow, he managed. Somehow he was always doing things that by all rights he shouldn't have been able to.

Well, I know how, I just don't want to think about it. Bastard that Owlman is, his techniques for training —  _conditioning_ , as my two friends call it — are damn effective. If he could get the power and the skill of his Talons at the same level without making them  _hate_  him, he'd be fucking unstoppable.

"Yeah," I answer, tearing my thoughts away from the unpleasant thought of an Owlman with his own small, personal army of all Talons. "Better than I was afraid of, you know?" Dick doesn't answer, just tilts his head a fraction towards me in what I know means he wants me to keep talking. "Jade's not taking me back," it stings, but I brush it off, "but as long as I'm here and it's safe, I can visit Lian. That's… That's more than I thought I was going to get."

"Congratulations," Dick says, turning down a side path that I know leads towards the normal barracks, towards our three rooms. He doesn't expand any further than that, but coming from D any kind of 'emotional' thing is worth its weight in fucking gold.

Thank yous, your welcomes, and congratulations included.

"Thanks," I answer automatically. "So, how're you?" I ask, looking over at him. "We haven't really gotten any kind of chance to talk since you got dunked in Ra's' Lazarus Pit, and I know that Jason was kind of struggling but what about you?"

He raises one eyebrow, looking more fully over at me for a moment before returning his gaze to in front of us. "I'm not dying," he says flatly, and then the corner of his mouth I can actually see flicks up for a second in a smile. "It's more than I expected," he says, throwing my own sentiment back at me. "I expected to die in Arkham, so anything upwards of that is… Good, I suppose would be your word for it."

Sometimes I get the totally insane,  _suicidal_  urge to hug Dick. Mostly in these moments, where he tries expressing himself by stealing other people's words, which totally proves that whatever other people think or even  _he_  thinks, he damn well  _is_  recovering a little from what the Owl did to him. He's getting a little better every day.

So I feel like hugging him. Then, usually about half a second after I think it — and thank  _god_  I don't usually act on my thoughts  _that_  fast unless they're words — I remember that Dick has  _never_  liked being touched. Apart from Jason, apparently. Hugging an ex-Talon will pretty much get you stabbed, and I happen to like my guts exactly where they are.

So, I settle for something a little easier to run away from. I raise my arm, wrapping it around his shoulders and really carefully  _not_  pulling him into a side-hug like I want to. It's not even really resting my arm on him, I'm keeping a lot of the weight supported by my own shoulder.

"That's  _great_ ," I say with a grin, avoiding watching him. I can feel his shoulders tense a little bit, and the tiny snap of his head my direction, and brace for an elbow or punch to the ribs. I've done this to Jason, once, but I've never done it to Dick before. Mostly because I remember that as Talon, D would have snapped the arm of anybody who touched him without permission.

I'm pretty sure he's a little more tolerant now, and to be honest it probably helps that every touch doesn't hurt him like it definitely used to. Yeah, I can see how D got trained to avoid touch like the plague. It's usually a pretty natural thing to avoid pain, and if touch causes pain, well…

I keep my breathing shallow, the muscles just a little tensed, in preparation for a blow that I realize, after a few seconds, isn't coming.

_Yes_ , step one  _achieved_.

I grin over at Dick, who shoots me back a glance and a look that's somewhere, in Talon-speak, between faintly amused and tolerating. "So how're you and Jason? I'm gonna say  _good,_  because you've been off in a corner by yourselves for like a week. I only just said more than two words to Jason  _yesterday_ , and I haven't really seen you at all. Things are good, right?"

His shoulders ease back down as I speak — not totally, which tells me he's not doing that forced-calm thing — and he makes no move to hit me, or pull away, or really do anything but keep pace with me as we head for the barracks section. Not gonna lie, it kinda makes me feel like a badass that I'm one of maybe three people — does Ra's count? — that can touch the seriously lethal killer next to me without ending up in crippling pain.

"Yes, Roy," he says, in a tone that's mostly flat but has just a hint like he's just enduring me until he can escape again. "Jason is… recovering. He'll be alright given some time."

I have to assume that Dick knows how kind of questionably stable and questionably  _him_  Jason was as recently as yesterday, and that he just knows more about what Jason was feeling than I do. I mean, I assume that Dick and Jason have been doing  _more_  than just sitting together in a room and—

Holy  _shit_  did I not need that idea in my head. No  _way_ , right?

Okay, so Jason doesn't go for women, as I found out yesterday in our talk, because the Owl pretty much beat the idea out of him. And he doesn't  _know_  if he's attracted to guys at all, hasn't had the time to figure it out or the drive. I guess once you've gotten the shit kicked out of you for getting sexually distracted once, you don't ever do it again. But what about Dick?

_Dick_. I have to hold back a snort.

This is  _serious_. D hasn't ever shown any kind of sexual anything as far as I can remember. I seriously don't know if the Owl ever did anything to him, if he's just straight out asexual, or just so damn repressed that anything like sex doesn't even register to him. Hey, I wonder how big the chances are I'll get punched if I ask? Probably not high. Probably worth the risk.

If there's  _any_  two people that are ever going to understand each other, it would be the  _ex-Talons_ , wouldn't it? I mean holy  _shit_. If Dick is interested in guys, at all, and there's not some kind of weird brother-like thing going on — I'm pretty sure there's not — then that's just fucking  _perfect_  isn't it?

They know exactly what the other's past is like, and who they are, and they're  _already_  pretty comfortable with each other, which for two traumatized guys with seriously screwed up childhoods, is a fucking  _miracle_. It's so  _perfect_. Dick and Jaybird, the lovers who broke free from the evil clutches of the vicious Owlman! What a  _headline_  that would make, seriously, even if it only ended up in the masked communities.

Okay. Now I just have to find out if Dick is attracted to guys at all.

"Weird question," I preface my words with, letting go of his shoulders because it occurs to me that it might send kind of the wrong message if I ask him while I've got an arm over his shoulders. "Are you attracted to guys at all, or women, or what? Are you sexual like, at  _all?_ "

He literally stops in his tracks, and I have to jerk and spin to a stop at the sudden halt of all movement. The look on his face is an actual… Well, an actual  _look_. Real  _expression_. Wow, did I hit a nerve or just ask something so completely strange and out of left field in his mind that he's got no idea why I even asked?

" _What?_ " The second one, gotta be. Wow, I had no idea I could even  _do_  that. I thought D was pretty much invulnerable to any kind of reaction except the tiny little micro-expressions he gives sometimes, and you have to really be  _watching_  to see those.

"Sex," I repeat plainly, "what gender are you attracted to? Or are you asexual? Fill a guy in!"

The look on his face is plain confusion, but as I watch it sharply cuts off, and his eyes narrow a touch to give me one of his Talon-looks. The one that's debating whether I've gone totally insane. I know that look  _really_  well.

"Why are you asking?" he asks in a flat tone,  _clearly_  back to hiding firmly behind all his emotional walls inside the damn emotional doomsday bunker. One nuke of a question brought it down, temporarily, but now he's rebuilt and we're back to square one. I don't have another bombshell like that on me.

"I'm just  _curious_ ," I lie through my teeth, with a wide grin. "Relax, D, I'm pretty much straight. It just occurred to me and I realized you've never done  _anything_  that I've seen and I've got no  _clue_  what you're all about, so I'm asking. Who are you into, D?"

Dick blinks, eyes narrowing just a touch further. "No one," he answers in a tone that's not just Talon-flat, but seriously  _empty_. Like, the 'I'm leeching all emotion out of my voice so you can't guess a damn thing' kind of voice. What a  _liar_.

"Okay then, were you  _ever?_ "

His mouth is a flat line, and it occurs to me that I'm pushing my luck here, but I barrel on anyway. To hell with caution, I'm too far in now and if it means a chance of freaking  _happiness_  for what are seriously my only two friends in the world, I can take a punch or two. Even Talon-punches, probably. Small price to pay for knocking my two traumatized idiots upside the heads to get them to notice each other.

I mean  _damn_ , even as a mostly straight man I can see how ridiculously good looking the two of them are, and while the scars might turn a lot of regular people off — psshh, like any  _regular_  person could ever understand them — the two of them won't give a fuck about the marks. There's no awkward 'let me fill you in on how I used to be this murdering, abused, bastard' thing either, and they  _already_ are the most important people in the world to each other, I  _know_ that. I'm not even jealous.

"Is there a point to this?" he asks, in a voice that's a little more clipped and maybe even a little bit irritated.

I'm starting to get the unpleasant thought that Dick's got the same emotional fuckups as Jason when it comes to this particular area. I mean, he was fifteen when he got out from under the Owl, which was more than enough time for him to start puberty and start  _really_  paying attention towards things of a sexual nature or people that caught his fancy. Maybe to even not have full control of himself, which is something that I bet the Owl  _despised_. After all, Talon is supposed to be this beyond-human, controlled,  _blade_ , not a teenage boy.

A lot of the female anythings, heroes or villains, have costumes that are fairly revealing, and the guys — if he swings that way — tend to wear pretty skintight stuff, usually. There's eye candy in both directions, and a lot of it to go around. It would be pretty ridiculously easy for pretty much  _anyone_  to have caught his eye. I know for a fact that Bruce Wayne — but the  _thought_  that Dick might have ever even  _considered_  that makes me sick — is absurdly handsome under the Owlman suit, as is Ultraman, Hal's got some  _fine_  muscles, J'onn can be anything he wants, Superwoman pretty much runs around with her boobs hanging out, and so on and so forth. Good looking kinda seems to be a prerequisite to join in on the masked community and be any kind of a major member.

So, he's got the same story as Jason, maybe? He got distracted, or Owlman caught him paying a little too much attention to someone, and he got beaten black and blue for it? It's gotta be more than that though, right? Pain doesn't mean much to ex-Talons, not even the  _fucked_  up kinds of pain that would drive  _me_  into shock or make me unconscious in about half a second. It would have convinced them not to do it again, but it wouldn't make them this adamant about it.

There are a couple of times that they've referenced things making them feel 'sick.' What does that mean? Did Owlman literally hurt them so badly — or something else equally fucked up — that when they even think about those things he conditioned them  _never_  to do, it makes them physically ill to remember the punishment? Because  _fuck_ , that would need to be one  _hell_  of  _something_  to make them react like that.

"I'm  _asking_ ," I say easily, hooking my thumbs into the band of my slacks, "isn't  _that_  the point?"

He manages to thin his lips out just a little farther without showing any other expression, gaze flicking over me for a second in a way that feels distinctly threatening to all the instincts that make me sometimes wary of him. Like he's trying to figure out what the quickest way to knock me out would be so he doesn't have to answer my question. He blinks slowly, watching me a second more, and then his mouth eases back to normal.

"You want to know?" he questions, and I give a little 'no shit' shrug.

"I  _asked,_ " I emphasize, "so yeah."

He gives a huff of breath that's definitely his version of a sigh, gaze flicking down the corridor briefly in both directions. "When I  _did_ have any kind of sexual attraction to  _anyone_ , Bruce  _removed_ it. Alright?"

Wait,  _removed?_ "You mean he—?" I make some kind of vague hand gesture that probably doesn't come close to communicating the awful thoughts in my head. I knew Owlman was a ruthless  _bastard_ , but I didn't even  _think_ he might actually… I was pretty sure Dick still had a  _dick_.

D gives me the 'you  _are_ an idiot' look. "Metaphorically, Roy, not  _literally_. I didn't have full control over my body, he didn't appreciate it, and I was taught to ignore and suppress it long before it became an issue. I honestly don't remember what it feels like anymore."

To me, not remembering what arousal feels like is a fucking  _crime_  against the world. Especially someone as damned good looking as he is; people must be crying in their sleep right now over the fact that  _Richard Grayson_ doesn't remember what it feels like to want someone. That's a  _damn_ shame, but maybe not a totally lost cause. We're bringing down all his other walls too, why not get him back into sex while we're at it?

"That doesn't answer my  _question_ , though," I remind him. "What gender, D? Male, female, both, neither? When you  _did_  get horny, what was it?"

Dick is looking at me in a way that I'm pretty sure is his equivalent of a 'for the love of  _god_ why are we having this conversation?' expression, and he gives another of his huffed, bitten back sighs. He raises one hand, scrubbing over his eyes in probably the most  _human_ thing I've seen him do in a long time — but probably not ever — and then lowers it to rest on his hip.

"I don't know," he answers. "Both, I suppose. It was a long time ago and I don't remember it very well."

_Hah!_ Fucking  _score!_  Now I just need to get the two of them to realize that they're standing right next to the most perfect matches for them — and let's face it, probably the only other people in the world who have a chance of totally accepting them, too — and I can get this ball rolling. Oh, my two friends are never going to see this coming, poor  _bastards_. I'm going to get them together, it's gonna happen.

"Why?" Dick asks, studying me, and I shrug again.

"No reason!" I say in the slightest of singsongs, with a wide grin, turning to head further along the corridor we're in. I don't even  _bother_ trying to make it sound true. Dick could see through any lie I ever tried, so what does it matter if he knows I'm bullshitting him? The more obvious it is, the more likely he is to ignore it as one of my personality traits. Which it  _is,_  but that's not the point.

I glance back to see him following me, looking vaguely skeptical but seemingly not going to call me out on my shit. Wonderful, that's  _perfect_. He'll never guess.

I'm going to make this  _work_.


	20. Getting off the Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's your Christmas gift, guys! That's right, I finished it! I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and may you all have a fantastic day (however much you have left of it; time zones are fun) with whatever kind of holiday you celebrate! Even if that's just a lovely day off from work. XD Enjoy!

Roy's been looking at me strangely for the past week. Not _bad_ strange, but there's something in his expression when he looks at me or Dick that's different, almost calculating, and I'm not sure that it's good either. It's even more pronounced when Dick and I are next to each other, and I'm honestly getting fed up with it. Roy's got the right to keep secrets, we all do, but not when it's about us. He's keeping something to himself, it's obvious, and maybe Dick hasn't said anything but I'm sure he's noticed too.

Dick notices things a lot faster than I do, especially when they're aimed at him.

I think the only real reason that I haven't snapped at him yet is because we haven't been seeing much of him. Roy spends nearly all his free time now with Cheshire and their daughter, Lian. Honestly, he looks like he's living up in the clouds most of the time now. He's just a little dazed, happy, and it's almost infectious. Almost. I only barely managed not to punch him when he saw me one day, grabbed me by the arms, and proclaimed that Lian had _said his name_. If he'd held on just a second longer, I probably would have.

I really am glad for him. I'm not sure if he really deserves happiness by the standard measure, but I want him to have it anyway. If Roy can be genuinely happy, maybe that leaves hope for Dick and me too. Longer road, definitely, but maybe it can happen.

Maybe we can put a fucking hole in the Owl's head and go about our lives with him gone. Permanently. It's a hell of a long shot, but just maybe we can make it work.

That's why we're here. Gathered in Dick's room, with Roy on the single wooden chair in here and Dick and me at the foot of the bed. We need to talk about what we're going to do. How much of Ra's' help we're willing to accept, how long we'll stay here, what our actual plans are when it comes to taking down the Owl. That's the kind of shit that you just _don't do_ without a plan and about fifteen different contingencies, just in case.

Roy's got that _look_ in his eyes again though, and it's pissing me off.

"Alright, _what?_ " I demand. I feel Dick's gaze flick to me, feel the slight brush of his shoulder against mine, but I keep my gaze focused on Roy. "What is it, Roy? What are you not saying?"

He blinks at me, and then his mouth curls into a grin and I just _know_ before he's even started to speak that he's not actually going to tell me anything. "Nothing, Jaybird."

"Bullshit," I counter. "You've got this _thing_ in your expression every time you look at either of us, and I don't know what it is and it's _irritating_ me. So just say what you have to say and get it over with."

"Okay," Roy's voice _still_ doesn't sound like he's actually going to tell me, "I should have said 'it doesn't matter.' It's just a silly idea that I'm absolutely not voicing because you'll both think it's ridiculous, but it won't get out of my head. I promise, it's nothing dangerous, and it's nothing that the two of you actually need to know."

I narrow my eyes, swallowing down my irritation. "That's not _helpful_ , Roy."

He winks, grins a little wider, and cheerfully answers, "Well, I'm not generally a very helpful person am I, Jaybird?"

My jaw clenches just a little bit, and then Dick's shoulder presses against mine with just the tiniest amount of pressure, and I look over at him. "If they're not dangerous," he murmurs, "then Roy is entitled to keep a few secrets."

I hold Dick's gaze for a second, and then shove out a sigh and shake my head. "Fine," I grudgingly agree. "It better not be important." I aim that last part at Roy, and he nods and leans back in his chair with a flick of his fingers that looks a bit like a salute. "So, anyone want to start with ideas for how we actually pull this off? Gotta say, died once already, not looking forward to doing it again."

It's a joke, _mostly_. Remembering dying — and that _knife_ through my jaw — still aches somewhere back behind my heart. It doesn't give me that rush of cold fear up my spine anymore though, and it doesn't make the remnants of the Pit that I've buried in the back of my head any louder. I spent a week with Dick, all but locked in his room while I fought to work past the insanity of the Pit and get control of myself again. The fear was honestly the worst of it, but it's calmed down some. I still wake up sweating and shaking most nights, but I've been sleeping in Dick's room as well so he's always there when I wake up.

Thank god that Dick gives me enough space to be able to calm down after my nightmares before he ever touches me.

He's strong enough to stop me, but I've gotten bigger and taller than him and it's not as easy for him to pin me down anymore. Luckily the most I do when I wake up is jerk and sometimes shout, and without any direct threat after that I don't get violent. Even though I know I probably wouldn't really hurt him, it still freaks me out a bit to think that I _might_. Plus, I can't help the shame in my gut that I have fucking _nightmares_. Every time I wake up with the taste of blood on my tongue, and fear choking me, I feel _weak_. I hate it.

There's this long moment of silence where Roy winces, and Dick shifts a fraction next to me in a way that I've come to recognize over the last couple weeks means he feels guilty. Maybe I just wasn't noticing it before I spent so much time so close to him, or maybe whatever he went through in those four months I was dead broke him down some and made him really feel again. I don't know which, and I'm not going to ask. If he doesn't want to tell me what the Owl did to him while I was dead, that's not my business. I wouldn't want to describe what he did to me while I was under him either, and I'm fairly sure that this was worse.

Punishment isn't the same as discipline. It's so much worse when you can't learn your lesson and make the pain stop. All you can do is pray to a god that never cared in the first place.

I raise one hand, scrubbing it over my face as I mutter, "Jesus, it was just a _joke_."

Roy gives a crooked smile, but his guilt lingers in his eyes. "Sorry, Jaybird. Bad memories for everybody, I guess."

Yeah, no shit. I die, Dick gets — I assume — tortured for four months, and Roy gets out of it alive but then has to face addiction and withdrawal for a second time. The Owl really fucked all of us up, and I can put a lot of that down to the fact that we weren't expecting him and Dick was dying, but that just means that we weren't nearly ready to face him. You should never expect to have a fight go completely your way; you'll lose every time.

"We can't face him head on," I put out there. "The suit gives him too much of an advantage; we don't have much strong enough to get past the armor and the added strength pretty much just fucks over any hand to hand we could try."

"So the first order of business is to disable the suit, or catch him while he has it off." Roy glances to Dick, and now his eyes are focused and a little narrowed. All evidence to the contrary, but Roy _can_ focus when it's important, and he is one hell of a strategizer. "Do you know the schematics for the suit? Or even just weak points? Anything?"

Dick is quite for a moment, and then glances towards me. "When I fought him the first time there were some new features, so I can't say my information is up to date, but I can give you what I have. Jason might have newer information."

I give a very small nod, and I break Dick's gaze to look back at Roy. "I don't know about any specific weak points, but I can tell you where the armor's thinner. Has to be so he can still bend and move. I think I know most of what it can do too, but we should probably talk to the Jokester when we get a chance. He's survived this long, he must know a pretty decent amount about how to fight him in that thing. It's not like his costume has any real armor."

"The Jokester's never _beat_ him though," Roy points out.

Dick's voice is quiet and matter-of-fact when he answers, "He's never been willing to kill him either. I agree, we should contact Jokester. We should speak to Ra's too, he's come the closest to killing Bruce."

"Ra's doesn't tell us shit," I almost snap, and then duck my head a bit. "That's not what I meant. He just… I don't think he's telling us the whole truth about any of this, and I know we _need_ him but I don't like not knowing why he's helping."

Roy looks like he agrees, but it's Dick's voice that intercedes. "Is the reward of having his greatest enemy dead not enough?"

I snort. "Maybe for normal people. He's put a _lot_ of effort into the three of us, Dick. Bringing me back, breaking you out _and_ healing you, making sure Roy recovered, and then training the two of us on top of that?" Roy winces, but I ignore it. "That's a _lot_ of risk, and honestly what are the chances we really take the Owl down? We didn't do too well the first time, did we? It doesn't make any rational sense for him to be putting this much effort into us; there has to be more to the story."

"He's right," Roy agrees, tilting his head as he gives a small grin. "Been thinking about that, Jaybird?"

 _Yes_.

"I'm not just a weapon anymore," is what I choose to say, "and I'm sure as fuck not anyone's attack dog. If I'm going after the Owl then I need to know exactly why I'm doing it. Ra's' reasons aren't cutting it so far, and I need to know he's committed to this before I do _anything_ for him."

Dick's shoulder presses to mine, a little firmer this time. "Very well. It's your call."

I blink, staring at him, and then glance at Roy and catch the edge of his nod. " _My_ call? Why? I've got the least experience of all three of us."

"Doesn't mean you're wrong," Roy counters.

Dick gives a small nod, and I see his fingers twitch like he was going to reach over and take my hand but decided not to. "I'm with you, Jason," he says softly, like it's that simple.

Roy gives a crooked grin, glancing between us with that _look_ back in his eyes. "Me too, Jaybird. I'm along for the ride until all this is done. After that? We'll see."

I stare at Dick for another second, trying to read what's in his expression but not recognizing it, before looking to Roy. "You have a _daughter_ ," I stress. "If you stay here you can be with her; why would you risk that? Don't you love her?"

Roy's grin turns to a soft smile, and his gaze flicks to the floor for a moment. "Of course I do, but I'm not one of you two. I can't spend the rest of my life locked up here with a bunch of people that hate me. Not even for her. I want a life, I want to show Lian the _world_ , and I can't do that while there's a target on my back." He gives a small laugh, hooking his right arm back behind the chair, his fingers curling around it much lower down. "Besides, I owe you two, remember? Need to repay what you did for me."

"You don't have to do that," Dick intercedes, and Roy almost immediately shushes him as he raises a finger to his own lips, grinning.

"Yes I do, D. Just go with it, alright? You've got me for this fight; write down whatever information you know and I can draft out attack plans while you two relearn how to fight. Maybe I'll watch and pick up a few pointers, but honestly we all know I'm just the ranged support here. You guys are the real powerhouses."

He's not wrong, but that doesn't mean that he's not _important_. Yeah, I could kick his ass all day, and so could Dick, but he's still one hell of a shot. Honestly he's way better than the two of us when it comes to anything ranged, and he's got more of a head for strategy than either of us as well. If he had the time to study us, build his gadgets, and make a real plan of attack, I'm not positive that he wouldn't beat us. Combat skill isn't everything. Anyone can be beaten.

That's one of the only things that keeps my hope alive. The Owl is the nastiest, scariest bastard I've ever met, but he's still just human. He bleeds, he _hurts_ , and he can damn well die too. I'll make sure of that.

"Alright," I agree, "so it's the three of us. This— Okay, stupid question." Roy tilts his head, clearly curious, and Dick raises one eyebrow. I end up looking at Roy. "This might go a hell of a lot smoother if we had more people. Is there anyone else we could maybe trust to help us do this? Anybody we _know_ wouldn't betray us?"

Roy winces, and then rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "I don't know. Jokester and Co. maybe? There are a lot of people who hate Owlman, but hating him and actually trying to _kill_ him are _way_ different. No offense to anyone — especially you, Jaybird — but this is kinda still a suicide mission. Getting anybody else involved is sorta like asking them to be alright with dying. It's a big thing to ask; most people have a real life to live for."

I snort, shaking my head. "Fair point. So, we could ask for backup but when it comes down to it…"

"It will just be the three of us," Dick finishes. "The Jokester will likely be willing to run distractions or something similar. Ra's will probably give us transport and recovery, if we survive. I doubt either of them would be willing to actually aid us in the fight though. Jokester wouldn't kill, and Ra's runs too much of the hero world to risk all of it on one fight. He'll protect himself above all else."

"Better than nothing," Roy points out, with a small grin. "Here's another dumb question. What if we survive? What then?"

"What do you mean?" Dick asks, with a very slight narrowing of his eyes.

Roy shrugs, rocking the chair onto its back two legs and balancing it there, feet still on the ground and keeping him from falling all the way over. "Well, say we kill the Owl and all make it out alive. Bonus points, let's say we're all more or less fine and uncrippled. What about the aftershocks? I don't know if you guys saw it as much as I did, but the Owl is a pretty central gear in the whole Crime Syndicate. He runs pretty much all their long term strategy, not to mention overseeing battles and things." He moves his weight forward again, letting the chair come back down on all four legs. His grin is gone. "If we kill him, what happens? Speaking as the planner of the three of us, there would be _no_ better time for the heroes to go after the Syndicate than right after Owlman dies. This could start a war; the heroes could stand a pretty good chance of _winning_."

There's silence for a second, and Dick is the first to break it. "That's not our problem."

Roy makes a face, shrugs again, and then gives a tight smile. "Except where it _is_. If the villains win, big whoop. We stay out of the way, probably no one looks for us, we get real lives. But if the heroes win? We're still criminals, D. Sure, we're on shaky good terms with Ra's, and you guys have got something like an ally in Jokester, but we're _criminals_. You two were _Talon_ , and that's a hell of a name to have over you. Even if we're the ones to take down the Owl, you know that doesn't wipe out everything else we've done, and what we've done is more than enough to get us all put in prison for the rest of our lives, if not straight up executed. If the Syndicate goes down, we could go down not long after."

"That's a lot of 'ifs,' " Dick counters, and Roy laughs.

"I'm a strategist, D. 'Ifs' and 'thens' are some of my best weapons."

I brace my hands at the edge of the bed, staring down at my knees as I think, and then nudge Dick's shoulder to get his attention before looking at up at Roy. "So, stupid answer for a stupid question. What if we help?" Roy blinks, looking completely confused, and I roll my eyes. "So the heroes either lock us up or kill us if they win this war that might happen. What if we were on their side instead? The three of us, with our information, and our skills? We could be a _big_ weight to tip the balance in their favor. Do you think helping them win that war, and then — I don't know — promising not to become criminals again, would be enough to make them give us a free pass for what we did before all of this?"

Roy definitely looks like he's seriously considering the question, his gaze lowering to the floor and his mouth pressed into a thin line. After maybe a minute — I only fidget a little bit — he glances at Dick, and then looks at me.

"I think we need to have a pretty detailed talk with Ra's," is his answer. "He's a big voice in the community, and he's one of their best planners too. He'll have an answer for that, and he'll have at least a good guess of whether or not the heroes are going to make a move if Owlman goes down. Plus, we need to find out his motivations for all of this."

Dick shifts, almost like he's going to stand. "Now?"

"No," Roy counters quickly. "If he won't give us his motivations… Better idea to wait. Learn as much as you can, I can draw out some ideas and we can get a real plan going, and then we confront him about all of this. Better not to risk the chance that we don't like his answers or he stops supporting us. He doesn't need to know any of our thoughts until we're ready for him to know. Sound good?"

I nod, and then give a small grin. "Sounds like a _plan_ ," I tease. "Alright, so we wait. Dick and I will learn, we'll give you the information we have, and whenever we're ready we'll talk to Ra's."

"Sounds good," Dick murmurs, with a tiny flicker of a smile.

"Great!" Roy snaps to his feet in one swift moment, and I'm still watching the corners of Dick's mouth as they settle from that smile so I actually flinch before I can help it. "Then you two do your thing, compare notes, write down what _I_ need to know, and come find me whenever you're done."

"And where will you be?" Dick asks, with a touch of humor to his tone. No smile, but there's a slight glint to his eyes that I know means he's amused.

Roy grins, brushing down his clothes even though as far as I can see the casual sweatpants and shirt aren't going to benefit much from a sweep or two of hands. " _I_ am going to go spend some time with Lian. I don't know if I've told you yet, but I have full permission to see her whenever I like."

I snort. "You have told me. Repeatedly. You know it's late, right? Kid as young as that is probably asleep."

He shrugs, the grin fading to a soft smile. "So I'll sit next to her and listen to her breathe. I got a lot of time to make up for, Jaybird, and I'm going to spend as much with her as possible." His smile falls just a bit, and then he adds, "Just in case." Barely half a second later and he's shaken off whatever the moment was and is laughing, winking at Dick before he turns around and heads for the door. "Have fun!"

I roll my eyes, but hold back the sarcastic jibes on the tip of my tongue and let him go. I wait until the door's closed to roll my eyes and mutter, "Dork."

Dick makes a small, amused noise. "He has his good points," he says quietly.

I lean into Dick's shoulder, closing my eyes as I tuck my head down next to his neck. "One or two," I allow, letting my tone be teasing. "Takes some getting used to."

It's easier to let myself relax without Roy around, when it's just Dick and his warmth, his solidity. I know now that Dick would never let anything happen to me if he could possibly stop it, and over the last few weeks he's been pretty much the _only_ thing holding me together. He taught me how to control the Pit, he let me lean on him physically and emotionally until I didn't need it anymore, and he gave me space when I needed it too. He's been… I don't even know how to describe it. He's been _everything_ I needed, and then some.

I think this is what family is supposed to be like. God knows I never really had a functioning one, but I think this might be it. Someone who cares, who supports you, who would sacrifice _anything_ to keep you safe. That last one scares me a bit, honestly, but I'd sacrifice just as much for him so I guess it evens out.

Roy's helped, in his own way. We've talked about all sorts of things, and he's sparred with me a few times — and never seemed to mind that he always lost — but it's been Dick who's held me together. Through the nightmares, the panic attacks, and the moments where the screaming in my head is so _loud_ it feels like my skull might burst right open. He's been there through all of it; a steady shoulder, murmured words, and calm blue eyes. He's put me back together when everything in me wants to fall apart or just go _mad_. All of it while I can still see that flicker of green in his own eyes, and the occasional tremble to his hands or measured pattern to his breathing. He's struggling with the Pit too, but he's never let it stop him from helping me.

Dick's answer to my teasing is a small hum that almost sounds like comfort, and then his left hand is gently touching my side. Just a brush of fingers as he slides it further around and underneath my shirt to rest at my low back, his palm flat against my skin and radiating heat. I give back a quiet rumble of sound, blindly reaching over and touching the outside of his leg, letting my fingers curl in the thick fabric of the pants he's wearing.

I've found out that while touching itself is nice, and being able to press up against Dick and have him hold my weight is comforting, _nothing_ is as good as skin to skin contact. It just feels _so good_ to be touched without expectation or violence behind the hand. It's not something I have any hope of controlling, and I don't want to. I trust Dick, so I can let myself relax into his touch and forget about the world for a minute or two. It won't stop spinning without me.

I feel the slight pressure of Dick's head on top of mine, and then the curl of fingers over the top of the hand I have on his leg. "Are you alright to talk about Bruce?" he asks in a murmur, hand rising off my back for a moment before he starts to gently stroke it instead.

I wince, shudder a little bit as my throat stings in remembered pain, my mind replaying the hard _yank_ of fingers in my hair and the feeling of cold metal and _agony_ sliding up through my jaw. I take one deep breath in, feeling the stir of the Pit and remembering Dick's lessons. Remembering the best ways to keep myself steady to drive the green madness back into the corner I buried it in. I focus on that one thing that I chose to center myself around, breathing out slowly and letting that word, that thing, _burn_ the madness out of my skull.

What else could I have _possibly_ chosen but Dick?

"Yeah," I answer, feeling the heat of the hand curled over mine and the gentle stroke of fingers across the skin of my low back. "I can handle it." I snort, opening my eyes but not making any move to pull away. Not yet. "If I can't, you're here. I'll get through it."

"I'll always be here," Dick agrees, and I can feel his breath rush over my scalp and through my hair. "For as long as you want me anyway."

 _God_ it feels good to hear that. To know it's _true_.

"I'll always want you here," is my whispered admission, and I close my eyes again and tilt my head in towards his neck. "Give me a few more minutes? Just like this?"

His fingers squeeze mine, and he promises, "Anything, Jason."

* * *

When Ra's starts his promised training, this time with me _and_ Dick, it turns out that he's got a much larger training room deeper in the mountain. He never showed it to just _me_ , of course, but that's where he leads Dick and me the first day he's got the time to train us. Honestly, it's probably because it's got an entire section of it dedicated to acrobatics. Suspended bars, loops, high beams, swings… I swear Dick perks up at just the sight of it.

We also get told that we're welcome to come down and work however we want to inside this room, when he doesn't have the time to personally train us. So when he's here we learn, and when he's not we just work up a sweat for the fun of it. It's still training, technically, but I'm just enjoying being able to spar with Dick again.

I'm stronger than he is, which is a _weird_ revelation, but that doesn't win me much. Especially because I hadn't realized how far Dick had already fallen when we were very first training. He was already hurt, and he was still teaching me so he wasn't _really_ matching himself against me. But now I'm bigger, taller, and almost as good as he is, so he's not really holding back. I didn't know just how capable he is when he's not being forced to play defensive.

The way he moves is… It's _breathtaking_. He's fast, and so smooth that it looks and feels like every shift of his muscle is just buildup for the next. Like every kick is just the lead in for a pin, or a punch, or a grab and _twist_. He's still better than me, even with the advantage of my build and what Ra's has taught me. It still leaves me in _awe_ to watch him.

Which is probably what lands me on my ass half of the time. Being awestruck by how your opponent moves is _not_ a good way to actually win fights, as evidenced by my current state.

Flat on my back, a knee in the center of my chest, one hand wrapped around my throat and another pinning down the wrist of the arm that isn't trapped underneath my own weight. Dick's grip is just a reminder though, and he lets go only half a second after he's pinned me. I appreciate that he's careful about shifting his weight off of me, and _doesn't_ put any of it into my chest through that knee right above my sternum.

I give a small groan at the lingering ache of having my breath knocked out of me, and I can see Dick's mouth flicker at the corners in one of his miniscule smiles. "Ow," I grumble, as I pull my other arm out from underneath my back. It aches too, but not as much as my chest. Neither of them are bad enough for me to really care, anyway.

Dick offers me his hand and I let him pull me back up to standing; he takes my weight as easily as if I was made of feathers and not solid muscle and bone, all without even a hint of effort. "You're distracted," he points out.

Before I can think about it I answer, "You're distracting," and then promptly clasp my free hand over my mouth. "I did _not_ mean to say that," I breathe, muffled behind it but definitely still loud enough he'll hear.

Dick's mouth flickers in another smile. "Am I?" He sounds genuinely curious, even as he lets go of my hand.

"Well…" I lower my hand, shifting my weight onto my heels and dropping my gaze down for a second in embarrassment. "It's just the way you _move_. It's all so smooth and precise like it's some kind of _dance_ , and I— I can't help watching because _fuck_ it's just so—" I hesitate, and finally let myself say, "So _interesting_." The word doesn't sit quite right on my tongue, but I know it's close. I can feel my cheeks starting to burn, and I drop my gaze again to avoid Dick's eyes. "It's impressive. Sorry, I'll try and focus."

I can see Dick step closer, and I follow his hand as he raises it, watching until it lightly brushes across my cheek. I let my eyes close, tilting my head into the touch as he murmurs, "It's alright, Jason. I don't mind."

My mouth curls into a small smile as I open my eyes, meeting Dick's gaze. "It's not really a good thing to have happen in a fight," I half-joke. "Letting yourself get distracted by how your opponent moves is kind of ridiculous."

"True," Dick agrees, but he's 'smiling' too. "I can show you something even more interesting, if you want?"

There's _more?_ I mean, Dick's already pretty damn cool, what else could he do? What haven't I seen?

As my mind spins in circles, I end up saying, "Sure, alright."

Dick lowers his hand away from me, and asks, "Do you know how to be a catcher?" My mind grinds to a _sharp_ halt, because he _can't_ mean what's at the front of my thoughts. I mean it's— I'm not sure it's a _bad_ idea but— "Acrobatics," he clarifies.

 _Oh_. Oh well that's— Okay, that makes more sense.

"Yeah," I spit out, fighting away whatever the strange, uncomfortable heat in my stomach is.

Wow did I _not_ need images that were that vivid in my head. I really didn't need to get catapulted into being that hyper aware of Dick's fingers, and mouth, and _skin_. It was just one stupid question that I misunderstood, why the hell did it come with the thought of Dick— Of him— Of _me_ with—

I blame _Roy_ that my head's been anywhere near sex recently. It's stupid and ridiculous because that's _not happening_. Even if Dick were remotely interested, I don't think I could stomach being that physically intimate with anyone, not even him. Not after how the Owl conditioned me against it, and that low thread of nausea that always curls in my gut whenever I see something sexual. It doesn't make me actually throw up anymore, but I remember that stretch of time after Catwoman distracted me. I remember being locked in a cage with the videos — just porn — my only company, and the pills that the Owl forced down my throat that made me _violently_ ill. I remember starving but not being able to stomach the smell of food, let alone the taste.

I remember it happening again and again and _again_ until he shoved me in that cage, started the video, and I threw up all on my own. No chemical assistance needed; betrayed by my own body. For a _long_ time after that just the thought of sex would make me gag, and actually _seeing_ something was an instant route to emptying my last meal on the ground. I remember that I was pretty sure that the Owl didn't think it was actually going to be as effective as it was, since he always seemed just a touch surprised whenever it struck. Was I weaker, or did he never do that to Dick? Did Dick never have to be forced into avoiding sexual thoughts like I did?

That curl of nausea is persistent though, and I swallow once, _hard_ , and resist raising my arm to press over my stomach. That's another thing that I usually can't bring myself to do; admit weakness. I was never good at pretending that I wasn't in _pain_ , but I was still taught to not admit to any weakness. Not openly. Defensive body language was what got me in trouble the most.

Dick's gaze flicks over me, and then the corner of his mouth twitches downwards, his eyes narrowing a fraction. "Conditioning?" His voice is soft, and that makes it easier to give a small nod.

"Yeah, sorry." I take a deep breath in, and give in to the urge to press my left arm down across my stomach. Dick _flinches_. That startles me enough that I freeze in place, and I stay that way as I watch Dick swallow, following the bob of his Adam's apple and then raising my gaze to his eyes.

His head dips in a small nod. He's not quite looking me in the eyes. "I understand."

"Made you sick too, huh? What for?" Another flinch, and I spit out, " _Fuck_ ," and duck my head away. "No, nevermind. Stupid, invasive thing to ask. Ignore it. I shouldn't have—"

"I tried to run," Dick interrupts, and my gaze snaps up to his. He's perfectly still, and there's something detached in his expression even as he swallows again. "He left an escape route open, and I fell for it. I never even made it off the manor grounds before whatever he put in my system took effect." His gaze flicks to the side, and I watch his brow furrow just a bit, like he's thinking particularly hard. "I… He would put me in front of the open door and tell me to _run_ ; promise to let me go if I stayed hidden from him for long enough."

"How the hell did you manage to get away from him after he did that?" I ask, partially curious and partially horrified. All the evil _shit_ the Owl did to me, but he never even let me think that there might be some tiny chance of getting out of it. Not like that.

Dick's face smoothes out again, and he meets my look evenly. "I chose survival. When all you have to live for is the idea of still breathing the next day, giving up the hope of getting out isn't that big a step. I shut myself down before he could condition me as well as he wanted to, but some of it is still in me. There isn't much I can do about that."

I snort. "Yeah, I know that feeling." I force my arm down, force myself to ignore that lingering hint of nausea at the back of my gut. "Still want to show me whatever you were thinking of?"

Dick pauses for a moment, and then gives a small nod. "Sure. Come up on the bars with me?"

He waits until I've given my own nod before heading for the other side of the room. The ease that he swings his way up onto one of the middle height bars — forty feet — makes my breath catch a bit, and I do my best to follow him up. It takes me longer to get up there next to him, but he waits until I'm sitting next to him on the steel. He gives me one flickering smile before nodding up towards the even higher hanging trapezes, and the net stretched out below it.

"Get onto one of those, I'll be on the other. I'm going to build up momentum first, and when I call it, swing down and be ready to catch me. Understand?"

"You got it," I answer, and just like that he's dropping off of our bar and catching it with one hand, _somehow_ building up enough momentum to propel himself to the next without any apparent effort. I stare for a second, watching the arc of his body, before I head in the other direction to the trapeze he pointed me towards.

It seems like so much higher when I'm up on the platform, the rope of the trapeze held in my hand. I've got no fear of heights — kind of impossible as Talon — but it's still pretty high, and trusting the safety of me _and_ Dick to nothing but a net makes me just a bit nervous. It's ridiculous, because I've made higher, riskier jumps with _nothing_ to save me if I slip, but I guess I just never had the chance to stare down at the drop and think about it first. Silly difference, but it's still a difference.

Dick swings down, the rope of his trapeze drawing tight underneath his weight. I _almost_ jump down after him before I remember to wait. Instead I draw the trapeze up higher, mentally rehearsing the twist and pull I'll need to hook my legs over the bar and have my arms free to catch Dick. Only distantly though, because most of my brain is definitely occupied with watching the arc of Dick's body as he rises, lets go of the bar, falls again and catches the bar without even a second of wasted time. It's _amazing_.

"Now!" he calls, and I drop down off of my platform. A second later I've twisted my knees onto the bar, and I twist my head up to watch him.

Momentum carries me forward, but my throat goes tight as I watch Dick _fly_. He's arcing through the air and then he's twisting, spinning once, twice, three times, _four_. And then falling, stretching out as he reaches for me. My stomach lurches as I realize his eyes are closed, but a half a second later his hands are closing around my lower arms, and mine around his, and just like that he's safe and I have him. We're swinging back, and I see Dick's eyes open a moment before we're back on the platform. He touches down, and then holds the trapeze as I uncurl and get back to my feet.

I stare at him, and then bark out a laugh. " _Wow_." Dick's mouth flicks into a tiny smile. "How do you even _do_ that?"

Dick tilts his head down, sits down at the edge of the platform, and I follow him. Our legs hang over the edge, and his shoulder presses to mine. My mind replays that twisting curl of his body, the _speed_ , and my breath catches all over again before I can even think about it. _Jesus_ , that's incredible, and it looked so _graceful_. I know I can't do that. I don't think I could even come close to pulling off a trick like that.

Dick leans weight into the press of my shoulder, and I turn my head to look at him. His gaze is aimed somewhere around my thigh, and there's something in his expression that looks _soft_ and almost vulnerable. I don't think I've ever seen him look like that before.

"My parents were acrobats," he starts, in a murmur just loud enough for me to understand. "The Flying Graysons; headliners at Haly's Circus." His mouth curls into a tiny smile, a _real_ smile, and he meets my gaze for a brief moment. "I learned how to fly before I could walk, before I could _speak_. It's in my blood; always has been."

I stay silent, afraid to break whatever this is, _hoping_ to know more and for him to keep talking.

"I don't remember them very well," he admits, "and what I have is mostly fuzzy. But I remember how they felt, and I remember what they taught me. I was working with them when they were killed, I'd just done that same trick to end my routine and it was their solo part of the act. One of the ropes snapped, and we worked without a net so there was nothing to save them. I found out later that Bruce had it engineered. Just enough damage so the rope would fray as we worked. I would live; they would die. He saw my talent and decided I was going to be his."

"Son of a _bitch_ ," I hiss, before I can stop myself.

Dick's other shoulder lifts in a small shrug. "It was a long time ago, and I choose to remember them by what I still have left, not what I lost. That trick I showed you is called a quadruple somersault, and as far as I know I'm the only person in the world who can do it without flaws. My parents could, but now it's just me."

I swallow. "You remembered it all this time?" Because I know it's too flashy, too impractical. The Owl would never have let him take a move like that into a real fight.

He nods, gaze rising towards the rest of the room. "Bruce had me practice it, occasionally. The last time I tried to do it I fell; dislocated my shoulder and snapped my collarbone on impact. He stopped telling me to after that, but there are some things you don't forget how to do."

"What happened?"

He pauses, and then meets my gaze. "I'm too tall and too heavy for the ideal measurements of an acrobat. The speed and force behind that trick would be easier if I was lighter, and when I was a kid I could do it with no problem, but as I got older…" He hesitates for a second, and I recognize the way he shifts as pushing past conditioning to speak. "I black out," he admits, holding my gaze. "At the end of the last turn, my vision goes and I black out for about half a second. I can't do that trick without someone to catch me, and that's what happened the last time I tried."

"You trust me that much?" My voice comes out small and quiet, and Dick's answer comes almost instantly.

"Of course."

I stare at him for a second, and then drop my gaze away and turn my head, avoiding the way he's looking at me. I knew Dick trusted me, and of _course_ I trust him too — trust him with my _life_ which is a big fucking statement coming from me — but I didn't think he trusted me that much. For the two of us, trusting someone enough to admit weakness, to admit _need_ , is insane. The fact that he apparently trusts me enough to catch him when he's free falling, and _unconscious_ , without even telling me that tidbit first is enormous. I don't even know how to process that because I don't really understand it. I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good. I could have mistimed my swing, missed catching him, and he would have been in for a rough landing on the net. Not fatal, or crippling, but it would have hurt.

He trusted me to keep him safe.

I swallow, raise my head to look at the ceiling and try to ignore the hard lump in my throat. "I—" I want to show him that he matters too, and that I trust him just as much as he apparently trusts me. No matter how crazy we both are to even think about it.

"My mother was an addict," I whisper, and then force my voice to rise as I lower my head. "She cared for me, but she was almost always too strung out to even notice I was there. When she wasn't high she was passed out, or in withdrawal, or hunting for the next fix. My dad…" _Anger_ boils up my throat, and I choke it back and clench my hands to fists to vent it out, closing my eyes. "He was an abusive _bastard_ , to me and her. Had scars from him before anyone else. He vanished when I was ten; I'm pretty sure he got arrested but as far as I know he could be rotting at the bottom of Gotham's bay. Mother overdosed not long after, and I ended up on the streets. Guess it was just bad luck that the Owl even noticed I existed."

Dick's hand touches the back of my hand, and I let out a slow breath and stretch out my fingers so he can lace his through the gaps. "Thank you for telling me," he murmurs, lightly squeezing my hand.

I give a jerky nod, then turn my head to look up at him. "I— I want to ask you a couple of things. Shouldn't ask, so just— Just ignore me if you don't want to answer."

"Go ahead."

I lean into his side, and _god_ I shouldn't ask what I'm about to. I don't need to know, and he hasn't told me already so it's _not_ my business. "What did the Owl do to you?" I breathe. "Not before, but… While I was dead, what did he do to you?"

I can feel Dick tense, just a bit, and I wince. He doesn't answer for a long couple of seconds, and then the tension drains back out and his fingers flex over mine. "Arkham," he says softly. "He put me in Arkham, and left me to die. Slowly. Guards were bribed and threatened to keep the inmates from outright killing me, but otherwise it was free rein. First with the less important ones, later with the heroes he has in there."

I suck in a breath through my teeth, _fear_ slicing down my spine at the thought of Arkham. I knew it was a possibility, but I didn't really think… No _wonder_ Ra's let Dick into the Lazarus Pit. I can't imagine anything but that Dick was all but torn into pieces in there; 'alive' doesn't mean much, and he was already dying.

Dick is silent, still in a way that I can feel through our contact and recognize as a leftover Talon habit. As if there's an enemy just in front of him that he's _ready_ to kill at even the slightest notice. "It was just pain," he murmurs, but that stillness doesn't go away. He doesn't relax.

"It doesn't sound like you believe that."

Dick glances over to meet my eyes, and there's something in his eyes that I'd almost call _unnerved_. He looks shaken. I watch him swallow, feel his shoulders twitch, and then his gaze drops again. "It felt like _hell_ ," he whispers. My breath catches. "I thought I could take it, to begin with. Pain and hatred; that's nothing new. I didn't think that I could break any further, but in that place… When Ra's got me out, I was starting to go mad. I could feel it. I didn't… I didn't have anything to try and live for. It didn't matter."

I stare at the side of his face, hearing the resigned note to his voice and _hating_ it. "But you've _always_ survived," I tell him. "The Owl, everything he did, all those years and you _survived_."

"I didn't want to anymore." Dick's voice is flat, but it still makes me recoil about half an inch.

" _What?_ "

Dick's shoulders lift in a small shrug, but he's still not looking at me. _Won't_ look at me. "As far as I knew you and Roy were dead. Without him — without you — there was nothing to live for. You—" Dick pauses, and then his head tilts towards me, his fingers flexing over mine. "Before I met you I was surviving, and I probably could have kept doing it for the rest of my life, but you reminded me what it was like to _live_. I didn't want to sacrifice everything I was to him so I could go back to just surviving. I couldn't. I'd rather have died."

My breath is coming sharp and fast, and before I know what I'm doing I'm turning my body to face him, raising my free hand to touch his cheek and pull his head up to look at me. "Jesus, Dick, _no_. You _can't_ do that." I don't know why he lets me move his head to make him meet my eyes, but what I can read of his expression is pain and _suffering_ , and it makes my chest ache. "Dick, _don't_. Don't you ever give up like that. _Please_ don't."

I barely even register the faint shiver that pleading forces out of me.

"That's not it." Dick's voice is so quiet he's barely even audible, and he looks _raw_ and unguarded in that moment. "I don't want to live in a world without you in it, Jason. I will, if that's what happens, but I won't _choose_ that. Not ever." His hand tightens on mine, almost painfully, and I can see him swallow. "If it meant you'd still be alive I would have done anything Bruce told me to, in a heartbeat. But I _won't_ sacrifice who I am just to survive, not anymore." I stare as his voice lowers another notch, and he leans into the touch of my hand as he whispers, "Learned that from you."

I can't find words. _Something_ is happening, something here is tenuous and fragile and I don't know what to do with it. The _fear_ of Dick dying, of him letting himself die, is cold and hard in my chest, in a lump in my throat, but there's more than that. There's something… I can barely _breathe_ , and I don't think I've ever had this mix of worry, fear, and that _thing_ all mixed together in my gut before. I don't know how to handle it; I don't know what to _do_ with it.

"You're everything to me, Jason," Dick admits — _promises_ — at the same time as a fact in the back of my mind shoves its way to the front.

 _Dick_ is what I picked to steel myself against the Pit's influence. I chose _Dick_.

I twitch forward, pulling him up and leaning down and then my eyes are closing and my lips are brushing his. It's— I—

Dick startles, his shoulders jerking, and I _yank_ myself away.

"Fuck," I spit, dropping my hand away from his face and pulling back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean— I shouldn't have— I'm _sorry_."

 _Run_ , hisses a voice in my mind. _Run_ and try to get as far away as possible before he recovers and hurts you. I try and pull my hand away from his so I can do just that, but his fingers are tight around mine and he's staring at me, his eyes just slightly widened. I consider dropping off the platform regardless — he'd let go to save himself, and the net's down there — but then his other hand is pressing to the center of my chest and curling into my shirt to hold me in place. I just swallow instead, _knowing_ that Dick can see exactly how scared I am but not being able to stop even a little bit of it.

I have _fucked up_. Royally.

"Dick, I didn't—"

"Shh," Dick hushes, and my mouth snaps shut again. "Jason, did you mean that?"

And knowing he can see right through my lies, knowing that I have _no_ chance of telling him anything but the truth, I whisper, " _Yes_. I'm sorry, I know it was wrong, it was _stupid_ , it was—"

Another hush, sharper this time. "Why?"

I take in a shaky breath, feeling the heat of his hand against my chest even through the fabric. "Because the thought of _you_ is how I control the Pit. I chose _you_."

Dick's eyes flicker a little wider, and then his hand is relaxing and smoothing out to rest flat over my chest, almost on top of my heart. "I chose _you_ ," he echoes, and I freeze up a little bit. "Is this what you want?"

Another breath, and I don't know where the words are coming from but things are clicking together in my head and I just _know_ they're true. " _Yes_ ," I say again. "God, Dick, you— you saved my life, you protected me, you trained me. I am _fucked up_ and you accepted me anyway; you understand me and you _know_ what I've been through. Yes, I want this but _please_ don't do it just for me. Don't—"

"Jason, _stop_." My heart plummets, my chest shrinks in on itself like my ribcage is too small, and then Dick speaks again. "You taught me how to live, Jason, and you reminded me what it was like to _care_. I wasn't lying; you're _everything_ to me. I mean that with every _single_ bit of who I am."

His hand curls into my shirt as I stare at him, and then he's slowly pulling me forward and down, and he's leaning up. I close my eyes automatically, and the breath whooshes right out of me when his lips brush over mine. I gasp in another breath, my mind stuttering to a halt along with my lungs, and then the hand at my chest is sliding up along my neck and into my hair and Dick is pressing up against me. His lips gain a bit more pressure behind them, and I jerk back into something like action.

My hand finds his side, and I let it follow the line of one of his ribs around to his back. I press my palm against his low back, barely able to stop myself from pulling him in closer and harder against me. His fingers are as gentle against my scalp as his lips are on my mouth, and then his other hand tugs free of mine and slides up my arm. I shiver at the feeling, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingertips all the way up until they reach my neck. I lean into him, leaving my free hand on the platform to keep my balance as his hand settles around the back of my neck.

It feels like an eternity that we kiss, but when he starts to pull back I still clench my hand into his shirt and try to keep him close. I hear him give one of his soft huffs of amusement, and this time I can feel the breath against my face. I open my eyes and almost my entire vision is taken up by the impossible blue of Dick looking back at me. I swallow, but I don't move.

"We're really going to do this?" I ask, fearing the answer as much as I _need_ it.

Dick's hand lightly squeezes the back of my neck, and it should scare me but it doesn't. It just _doesn't_. "Yes. As long as you want me, I'm yours." It's barely even a whisper, but it's everything I've ever needed.

"I— I don't think I can— Not with anyone." My cheeks are probably flushed, and I know my words are vague as hell, but Dick seems to understand them somehow.

I see his mouth curl into a tiny smile, and stay that way. "I wouldn't even know how to start," he admits. "You're the first, Jason. For anything."

So that was… I just took Dick's first kiss? Ever?

I lean in, take a second one, and shove aside my insecurities so I can pull him a little closer to me. "Don't stop," I whisper against his mouth. "Don't _ever_ stop."


End file.
